Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot
by amsayy
Summary: Kyle and Ike Broflovski hire a small charter plane to take them and a group of their friends on a trip to Turks and Caicos for Spring Break. Just one problem... Pilot/Plane Crash AU/Series.
1. Mayday

"Mayday, mayday, mayday, coast guard, mayday, mayday, mayday."

 _"Aircraft calling mayday, vessel in distress. This is the United States Coast Guard, Cape Canaveral, Flordia, state your position, nature of distress and number of souls on board, over."_

"This is Challenger 604, Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot, off the coast of Cuba. Exact position unknown, en route to Turks and Caicos. Twelve people on board, over..."

"Mayday, mayday, mayday, coast guard, come in."

There was no answer after the first response. Stan Marsh, captain of the aircraft, was not supposed to panic. In the face of an emergency, they were to remain calm, collected, and think of solutions. But currently, unless either he or his first officer could magically repair two engines with a snap of the finger, could do nothing to problem solve. Gripping the yolk, Stan smashed the button on the radio, switching it out of emergency frequency, and then back again. Try turning it off and on. The universal initial quick fix for everything, these days. Stan spoke into the headset again. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, Flordia. This is Challenger 604, Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot. Dual engine failure. Twelve on board. Come in. Over."

Still nothing. "Cartman, alert cabin crew to prepare for emergency landing."

"Yes, captain." Under normal circumstances, getting Eric to address him properly was like pulling teeth. Stan thanked the Lord that for once, he didn't respond with cheek and simply did as he was told. Alerting Kenny in the galley, his voice came through the intercom. "What's up?"

"Prepare cabin and passengers for water landing, Kenny," Cartman said, voice cracking from worry as he watched Stan hold onto the yoke with one hand muscles staining to keep from diving forward, and smacking at the dash with the other. "What is going on?!"

They didn't get a response from Kenny, only to hear muffled over the speakers in the cabin that he was walking them through the procedures. They could tell Kenny was calm. Of course he was.

Kenny feared death the way Stan feared puppies.

Stan couldn't help but be bitter. Kenny had nothing to lose, if he died he woke up again hardly twenty for hours later, feeling better than before.

"The altimeters are all over the place," Stan hissed, scooting up in his seat to look out in front. The nose of the plane was maybe six to seven fingers below the horizon, a clear descent, yet when he looked, the one stated they were ascending, the other suddenly dropping to zero. Clearly one was wrong, they weren't ascending, but at the pace of the other they'd hit the water in seconds.

Also wrong.

"Estimate our altitude," Stan commanded, and Cartman looked out the side window. "I'd estimate five thousand, Captain." It was a rough one. The only thing besides sky they could see was water, and it didn't offer much of a way to gauge height. So Cartman had to guess from time, and last known altitude.

Stan flipped a few switches, a desperate attempt to get the aircraft under control. Absolutely nothing was working. The whole flight deck was filled with various robotic female voices screaming about various failures. "Is anything on your end working, Cartman?" Stan asked, his voice shaking.

"No, Captain..." Cartman stared at the instruments, all of them going wild, lights flashing on and off, the ground proximity warning, even the fire alarm for the bathroom was going off and on. "This is useless, man, even my yoke isn't working!" To demonstrate, Cartman pulled back with way to much ease considering Stan was clutching his for dear life.

"Seatbelt on?" Stan asked, eyes darting down to make sure his was on.

Cartman responded in turn. "Seatbelt is on,"

"Prepare for landing," Stan ordered. "Preparing for landing."

It was almost laughable, Cartman thought. There wasn't anything he could do but tighten the straps around him, and push the yoke away to avoid crashing into it and breaking a few ribs. No point in it being there if it was useless.

Stan had somehow managed to get enough control to slow the descent, bringing the horizon up to about four and a half fingers to try and level them with the water that was so close, they could make out individual white caps in the water. At least they wouldn't be going nose first.

Stan gave one last, hopeful try, despite radio being shot. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Captain Stan Marsh, Challenger 604, call sign Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot. Twelve souls on board, please respond."

Stan swore, ripping the head set off his head and tossing it somewhere behind him.

"Pleasure flying with you, Eric," Stan said, just in the chance one of them didn't make it. Or both. They were at the biggest risk.

"You too, El Capitan," Eric chucked, voice dark as he extended a hand to shake. Stan took it, gripping tight as they collided with beautiful blue waters.

"Stan," someone called, and Stan groaned, wishing them to go away. Everything hurt, and the sun was much to bright, shining through his lids. "Hello! Earth to Skip!" Stan shot up in an instant, cheek on fire as Kenny came into focus. "What the fuck?!"

"The Boy Who Lived lives on!" Kenny cheered, sitting back on his knees. Stan wiped at his face, trying to ignore the pain in his chest and head. His hands came back wet, both with water and blood. "Careful, the cute little redhead reckons you've got a broken rip and a concussion. Says he's a med student. Also says he knows you, too."

What?

"Broflovski ring any bells?" Kenny continued, and Stan groaned, trying to push the blonde away from him. "Stop, Ken, Christ. Let me figure everything out."

Stan remembered the events up to the crash, but the specifics just before hand were lost. Judging by the squish he sat on, they were on the emergency raft. "Is everyone okay?" Stan asked, heart sinking as he thought the worst. How it would reflect on him and his career if he had lost anyone, yet survived himself.

"Mostly. Everyone's got an injury or too. You and Cartman turned out the worst, obviously. But I think Eric's fat helped him out a bit, he's just got a busted arm and dislocated shoulder." He wasn't awake yet, Stan could see, once the sun stopped being so damn blinding.

"You okay?" Stan asked, leaning against the lip of the raft and breathing deeply. Kenny nodded, lifting a wet, white sleeve to wipe at the cut on Stan's hand. "All good, you know me," Kenny said softly, looking out past the raft. "We're close to land. Wendy, the dark haired girl over there, thinks it might be part of a resort. Either way, it's out of the fucking ocean and onto something that isn't making everyone sea sick."

Kenny had gone over the roster early on in the flight, and chatting to most of them for the first few hours had given him the information that they were carrying mostly a group of grad students, almost all of them in their mid to late twenties. A handful of them, Kenny had learned, were friends of the Ike a Broflovski, Kyle's little brother along for the ride.

"Kyle says you're not to sleep for a few hours," Kenny continued, noting Stan's drowsy eyes. "Says you might not wake up, and what would we do without our skipper?" Kenny smiled, prodding Stan in the cheek.

Kyle?

Broflovski?

"Are Kyle and Broflovski the same person?"

"Mhm, he knows you, he said." Kenny said again.

"Oh, god," Stan groaned, looking at Kenny's confused face. "He's my old high school, uh... boyfriend? Best friend? I dunno, it was complicated..."

Of all the gin joints in all the world.


	2. Landing

Cartman didn't wake up until they had hit land. Stan couldn't help but feel both jealous and annoyed with him for it. He basically got to sleep through the whole ordeal, which left Stan and Kenny to help calm down their passengers and assure them that everything would be alright. There was no reasoning with some of them, specifically the twitching blonde that was deathly afraid of air travel in the first place.

"This is your fault!" His dark haired friend, boyfriend, whatever accused him, and Stan resisted the temptation to let his frustration out with a nice punch. Instead, he pinched at the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as he inhaled deeply to keep himself calm. He was still the commanding officer of the craft, even if that was now sinking to the bottom of the ocean and all they were left with was the international yellow life raft.

Stan asked, "What's your name, sir," before looking over to the corner of the raft where Kenny sat with Cartman, occasionally prodding at his face. Still wasn't awake. Stan had half a mind to think he was faking. He wouldn't put it past his lazy first officer. "Craig. Craig Tucker," the young man spat from his cross legged position. "What kind of fuckhead crashes the plane? It's your one fucking job!" Stan noted the bruises on his bare arms, shirt removed long ago, wrapped around the head of the blonde. Kenny had called him Tweak, earlier, upon distribution water rations. That couldn't possibly be his real name...

"My primary job is to assure the safety of the aircraft," Stan said, voice rehearsed after having said it nearly every day of his life since he was fourteen, the first day he sat as a student in a DV20 Katana. "And I failed. I'm aware of that, you don't need to remind me. No doubt you will be compensated by the company for time and grievances." The young man stood up, pointing down at the other boy curled up in a fetal position. Craig wobbled precariously, the inflated surface of the raft offering little support. He was taller than Stan was, he noted. All legs, really. He stared Stan down, and he couldn't help but puff his chest out and stand taller. Stan was the commanding officer, and he wasn't about to let some punk grad student make him feel inferior. Not now, not while he had a dozen people to care for.

Craig's voice broke, looking down at Tweek. "I don't give a fuck about grievances! Look at him!" He hadn't stopped the panic attack since the flight attendant had told them to prepare for an emergency landing. Well, he did stop, for the brief moment he'd hyperventilated so hard that he'd passed out, sending Craig into his own panic. The only saving grace about it was that it was just before impact, allowing Tweek to be out for it, and Craig himself to be so concerned about him that he didn't have the ability to care about his own self perseverance. "Listen," the pilot said, eyebrows furrowing together. "I've got a life raft of panicked people, my first officer is out of commission, and I'm going to try my hardest to make this right, okay?"

Before Craig could say anything further, Stan turned around and wobbled over to his flight crew. Kenny needed all the help he could get in hauling Cartman out of the raft now that they hit land. Nearly everyone else was happy to hop out, thankful for being on dry land. There was a clear power dynamic in the group, Stan noticed as he watched them all congregate on the sand. Sighing, Stan left them too it. They were all adults, and at the end of the day, his control was limited. Even his crew weren't obligated to listen to him.

"Alright, you take his legs and I'll take his arms," Stan told Kenny, only to have the other shake his head. "Can't, we're just gonna have to grab him. Your redhead over there needs to pop his shoulder back into place once he's up." Stan pursed his lips, shaking his head. "He's not mine, and why not? Cartman'd be better off not being awake for it." But Stan moved to grab one of Cartman's legs, both he and Kenny struggling to pull him out of the raft and onto the wet sand, head getting submerged under the water as a small wave rolled in. He couldn't help but laugh, digging his feet into the sand to get traction to pull Eric further onto land.

"Christ, he's fucking huge," Kenny complained, falling to his ass once they were far enough away from the water. "How'd he pass his fucking medical?" Stan shrugged, falling back himself to groan in pain. Fuck, his ribs were killing. He didn't think any were broken, perhaps just bruised. It would have been hard for Kyle to tell unless one was actually protruding from his body, which clearly wasn't the case. But they hurt, and now that Stan was seated and on land, the crushing reality falling slowly into place... Well, he could really feel them now. Stan pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, groaning. "Fuck, Ken... What are we gonna do?" He felt Kenny move in the sand, rubbing small circles on his back and shoulders. "We'll figure it out, Skip," Kenny said, before resting his chin on Stan's shoulder.

They stayed silent for a few moments, before Kenny spoke again. "What happened, anyway?"

The young pilot was about to explain, only to be interrupted by a shadow over top of them. Both Kenny and Stan looked up, Stan's cheeks turning redder. "Kyle," he greeted with a small nod.

Fuck.

"How're you doing?" Kyle asked, looking at the three of them in one fluid movement. Already, Stan could see the sun burn forming on his cheeks. Kyle had never done well against the sun. "Alright, you?" Stan asked, and Kenny scooted back, focusing his attention on trying to smack Cartman awake. Stan internally swore at him for leaving. Kyle shrugged his answer, mouth opening as if he wanted to say something. He didn't, and for that Stan was grateful. What could they say to each other? That Kyle was apparently right, or that Stan was wrong to say the things he did? That they were sorry they both ended up here and not somewhere better?

Kyle finally spoke. "So... Captain, huh?" Stan nodded, before his face fell into a look of pure misery. "Not anymore, but yeah. Doubt I'll ever get hired again. Crashed a fucking plane in under a year of being the officer in command. Fucking stupid of me." Stupid of his employer. Stan took the pay cut to fill the position, his boss saying that the compensation was in the experience. And how could Stan disagree? To apply to a future airline with his resume stating he was Captain at twenty eight? He'd look like a fucking Sky God. "What about you? Made it to grad school, apparently. Stan says most of you are students."

Kyle took a seat beside him, shaking his head. "No, not quite. Some of them are, really. Like Wendy, she's in her last year. I took up residency this year," Kyle explained. So he made it further than Stan had said he could. "Congratulations," Stan said. It had been nearly ten years since they had spoken a word to each other, and it made him uneasy. This small talk was stupid, exhausting Stan even more than he already was. "How's Ike?" Stan asked, even though he wanted nothing more than to sleep. But he did like Ike, genuinely cared for Kyle's little brother.

"He's okay, a bit shaken up. Already complaining about the heat. Some nonsense about his Canadian body not being made for the humidity." Kyle rolled his eyes. Ever the drama queen, Ike. He'd taken up shelter under the shade of palm leaves, bickering with Firkle and Filmore about something that Kyle hadn't heard. "Wendy and Bebe, the girls, went off to see if they could find anyone," Kyle continued. "With any luck, we'll be on a populated island. Surely there's gotta be someone..." Stan wasn't really listening, eyes drifting shut.

"Hey, guys!" Stan jolted at the sound of Kenny's voice, and he turned to look at him. Cartman was stirring, and Kyle hopped to his feet. Not yet a doctor, but ready to be a hero, apparently. "Screw off, Kinny," Cartman whined, and Stan dragged himself on the sand with his legs.

Kenny stayed kneeling beside Eric, smile bright and blinding. Who could be so pleasant, when he was in fucking agony. "Fuck," Eric moaned, trying to move his arm. "The fuck is wrong with me?" Kenny was about to explain, only to have some ginger beat him to the punch. "You've got a dislocated shoulder, and I'm going to put it back into place," he explained, and Cartman tried to push himself backwards. "The fuck you are, like I'm gonna let some strange ginger kid touch me," he hissed, only to receive a pinch from Kenny. "Be nice to Mr. Broflovski, Eric, fuck. You wanna walk around like an idiot?"

Broflovski?

"Yeah, fuck no, it's bad enough he's a ginger, and now he's a Jew?"

Stan buried his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he grumbled to Kyle, the redhead looking like he was about to explode. "He's a racist asshole when he's tired. And hungry. And apparently hurt, too." Kyle didn't acknowledge Stan's apology for his coworker. Instead, Stan watched with his mouth agape as Kyle sat on Eric's chest, ignoring the yelling protests as he grabbed a hold of the larger man's arm. Eric yelled, having his own little tantrum and cursing Kyle with every slur in the book, some Stan hadn't even heard of before.

"You're such a fucking child, how'd you even pass your fucking exams," Kyle yelled back, the temper Stan had known a decade ago flaring out. With a quick motion, Kyle had forced the shoulder back into place, Eric screaming bloody murder as they all heard a pop.

"Fuck you you fucking kike!" Eric pushed Kyle off, the ginger landing on the sand. He stood, brushing himself off before bending over and staring Eric down. "You're fucking welcome, you fat fuck. You can thank me when you're not acting like a little bitch," Kyle hissed, turning on his heels and stomping up the sand to explain to the others what had just happened. Or so Stan figured, judging by the stares they all gave at the scene.


	3. PPL

_Ten Years Prior_

Kyle knew everything. Kyle could do anything. Kyle's time was taken up by basketball, by debate team, by year book. By extra classes that filled up spare periods and his lunch break. Kyle volunteered at the homeless shelter. Kyle took violin lessons. Took dance classes. Kyle spent every waking moment studying, volunteering, learning. Filling his academic resume with everything he possibly could to better his chances at leaving their stupid, shitty little town to go Ivy League.

Stan couldn't help but feel resentful of it. They rarely saw each other, and when they did they studied. Or they're fought.

Not that Stan himself wasn't entirely to blame. He had quit the football and hockey teams to free up more time in his schedule, opting instead to work part time at the grocery store in town. When he wasn't working, Stan was flying. When he wasn't doing either, he was studying for his written exam or attending the mandatory ground school classes. Everything had cost him so much, and it was a battle with his parents to dip into his college fund to pay for the flying hours for his PPL.

Kyle always agreed with them, insisting that this obsession with flying was better spent focused on school. Even go study mechanical aviation, or go to Florida and learn through an academy.

Stan didn't want that.

Stan had every intention of doing this himself, at the accelerated pace he was going. His hours were almost complete, clocking in at just over fifty. He needed one more cross country, and to complete his written and practical exam to be finished and granted his PPL. From there, it was more flying, more classes, more exams and ratings until he could complete his CPL. Stan had everything budgeted out, provided he could convince his parents this was serious. That this was the career path meant for him. Not spend every penny that would ever come to his name to study to become a surgeon like Kyle.

Stan and Kyle were going on different paths, ones that took up every ounce of patience they had.

Which left them nothing for each other. And it chipped away at them. In the beginning, there was nothing but love and support. Kyle was there for his first take off and landing. Stan pulled all nighters to help Kyle maintain the highest marks on every test and exam. Now, Stan dreaded the planned nights where he'd have to hold cue cards, listen to Kyle's absolutely insufferable speeches, read through his essays to make sure they were error free and getting scolded if he missed one. Kyle no longer bothered coming to the airfield, waiting in the lounge for an hour or more for Stan to finish. Better suited studying at home, apparently.

They fought all the time. But this one... this one was going to be a doozy. Stan could feel the tension getting thicker every time Stan focused less on Kyle's notes and more on his own. They were supposed to be studying for finals. But Stan's written exam was the same week, and took priority.

Not to Kyle, though.

"Put that shit away, dude, you can't afford to fail chemistry," Kyle snapped, reaching across the bed to yank away Stan's textbook, replacing it with a stack of his own notes instead. No, Stan couldn't. But Stan couldn't afford to fail his written, either. Literally. Not unless he wanted to into overdraft. "Fuck off, Kyle," Stan hissed back, picking up the chemistry notebook and tossing it onto the pile of shit Kyle had on his bed. "I know you're stressing out, but get off my back. It doesn't even matter," Stan said, breathing deeply to keep his temper in check. Kyle was already testy, and the last thing he wanted was to get his little fireball ass going.

"Of course it matters," Kyle said, eyes narrowing as Stan picked up his text again, popping the cap of a blue highlighter off with his teeth. "This shit," Kyle waved his hands around at the various charts and maps surrounding Stan. "Can wait. You can take that stupid exam again, you can't do these again."

Stan didn't speak for a few moments, highlighting a few key definitions that were a shoe-in for questions on the exam. "I have to wait, and get my instructors approval that I'm worth reexamining. And I have to pay again, Kyle. I'd have to work an extra weekend to just pay for the redo." Time was precious. A weekend offered more hours in his log book. A few hours in the sim. Retaking the test itself was a couple hours worth of flying GDLH.

Kyle didn't answer for a few moments, and Stan decided now was time to let out a small secret he'd been holding in. "Besides," Stan looked up, swallowing. "I didn't get in anywhere." Kyle's mouth fell a little, in shock or sympathy or maybe something else. Stan didn't know. But Kyle said nothing but a small "oh".

"I didn't apply anywhere," Stan clarified. He couldn't get in if he didn't apply, and he had no interest. Stan thought that maybe, if he never bothered to apply anywhere for college or university, everyone would get off his back and accept that this, that flying, was what he wanted. That it was a viable career with a whole slew of options. By the time he'd be able to fly commercially, many existing pilots would be at retirement age. Air travel always becoming cheaper, more economical and affordable. It wasn't a dying industry, and Stan had done his research to make sure that this wasn't just some stupid pipe dream he'd had since he was a kid.

Kyle still said nothing, eyes narrowing into slits as he gripped a pen tightly. "What?" The redhead asked, and Stan winced at the tone. But he wasn't backing down. "I didn't apply anywhere. It's not worth my fucking time. It's not what I want to do, and I'm not going to lie to everyone to make them happy when I don't fucking want it, Kyle. This!" Stan picked up a map of the western United States, colored with lines and circles at all sorts of angles. "This is what I want to do, and if you really had my best interests at heart, you'd stop pushing me into whatever stupid degree you're aiming for."

His boyfriend looked offended, as if Stan was out of his damn mind for daring to call Kyle's future _stupid_. How'd it feel, Stan wondered, because every fucking day of his teenage life he'd heard that. "It's my _future,"_ Kyle hissed, "and it's far from fucking stupid. Do you have any idea how hard I've been working?!"

Stan threw his hands up, before waving them wildly at all the shit surrounding them. "No shit, Kyle, look at all this fucking stuff? For what?! To get into university? Spend twelve years studying and another god knows how long before you're even allowed to work?! But I'm the idiot because I'm far more fucking advanced in my career path than you are?" Stan's voice rose, gathering up his things and stuffing them all into the backpack he'd snatched off the floor beside the bed. Kyle was about to retort, but Stan beat him to the punch. "No, shut up, I'm sick of you justifying your own future while putting mine down. I'll be flying for a major airline before you're even licensed. You'll be in debt, and I'll be paying off my own loans within a few years with a decent enough salary!"

Stan stood up off the bed, staring down at the mop of curly hair. Kyle's face was flushed with anger, and Stan was rather surprised he hadn't blown up yet. "Where are you going to be in ten years, Kyle? Still studying. Still working your ass off and digging yourself deeper into debt to become some stupid fucking surgeon." Yeah, it was admirable. Kyle wanted to save lives. But Kyle also wanted to make enough money to support himself, and to be able to correct everyone when they called him Mr. Broflovski, to say 'No, it's _doctor_ Broflovski.' or some stupid bullshit.

"Fuck you, Stan," Kyle spat. "At least I've got something reasonable. You think you're going to be some high flying sky god? Don't fucking kid yourself. It's nothing more than a fucking sky taxi. You'll be lucky if you can get a damn job shipping cargo up to Alaska or dusting crops, for fucks sake." Stan gripped the handle of his backpack, ready to turn to the door and walk out. "You're wasting your potential, Stan!" Kyle's voice was matching his own in terms of volume. "Imagine if you put this effort and time into anything else. You quit football, you quit hockey, and you were the best. Could have gotten a full scholarship from that alone, no doubt. Focused on something, anything else, Stan. And now you've wasted your fucking time, not even bothering to apply?! How could you be so stupid?! Not even as something to fucking fall back on!"

Stan turned, back to Kyle as he yanked open the bedroom door. "I'm not fucking stupid," Stan turned to say, before slamming the door behind him and trotting downstairs. Kyle's mother stood at the base of them, and Stan muttered a small apology to Mrs. Broflovski before leaving her home and crossing the lawns to his house next door.

Stan and Kyle hadn't spoken more than a few passing words to each other since that day. They'd elected to ignore each other, both too stubborn to come apologizing with their tail between their legs. Of course, neither of them had thought they were wrong. So Stan had spent that summer working, got his private license in July. From there he stayed at home for a few years, moving from the grocery store to working at the airfield. It was more than minimum, and he was allowed to take one of the planes up for only the cost of fuel. Over the course of several years, Stan had saved enough to pay for his ratings, his exams, his hours and rent for an apartment. He'd convinced his parents to let him use the couple thousand they'd saved for college. When his grandfather died and left him a small sum, it went instantly into the costs. By twenty five, he had his commercial license. Stan had nothing else to his name but that, but it was all he'd wanted.

Stan hadn't a clue where Kyle was, how he was doing, and he rarely thought of him. It wasn't as if Stan had any social media to check up, even if Kyle had crossed his mind. He'd instructed at the airfield himself for a couple years, seeing one of the mechanics on and off during that time. Nothing serious, and Stan wasn't too bummed about it when he'd left for the current job he had now; working for a small charter company with a fleet of three aircraft. His boss was a stingy old man, cutting costs wherever he could. Which lead him to the offer he gave Stan; for half the salary, he could be commanding officer of the older Challenger 604 in his fleet. Mr. Donahue said it was worth the resume experience, and Stan figured he'd do just fine with twenty thousand a year. It wasn't worth turning it down.

So he'd met Eric Cartman, an over confident, ignorant asshole who challenged Stan at every moment he possibly could. But they became friends nonetheless. Impossible to do so otherwise, spending upwards of ten hours together in the flight deck. Then along came Kenny a few months later, kicked off Mr. Donahue's Falcon 2000s for pissing off the two female pilots he had installed there. To their defense, he pissed off Stan and Cartman himself. But he fit with them, and over the last year and a half they became like family. Stan had learned that Eric didn't have a father, that his mother thought lovely, had spent most of his childhood with drugs and various boyfriends that more often than not led to some form of abuse or disruption of the household until Cartman had been old enough to move in with a friend. Stan had learned, as well, that Kenny had a brother and sister living at home with him. He'd taken them out of his parents the first chance he got. Kenny had said they were good people who put them in questionable situations. Stan didn't ask further.

In the first few months, working for Mr. Donahue at his airfield, he also learned that Kenny could be sucked into an engine and come back the next morning. Stan didn't ask, and no one offered no explanation. At first, Stan had thought he'd imagined it, going into a full panic and wondering why no one else bothered to do anything. They'd all just said that he'd be fine. And he was. At least once a month, Kenny would meet death only to be back to work the next day.

Working for Mr. Donahue wasn't perfect, but Stan had been the happiest he had been for a long while. A steady job, a decent income, a couple of friends to go out for drinks or shoot the shit with. It felt normal, aside from the days in which Kenny was run over by a landing vessel.

All was well. Until, of course, he'd crashed the GCOF into the Atlantic.


	4. First Officer

Eric Cartman was a natural. At everything he wished to accomplish, he did. What had possessed him to become a pilot, however, was the look. The appeal of a man in a crisp uniform, beautiful men and women in his cabin. Flying the rich and famous across the globe and spending the nights with stewardesses in hotel rooms paid for by the company. To walk through airports with your head held high, bars on your shoulder and envious or amazed looks by normal people and their normal lives, wishing they could be you or be with you.

Well, it sure as fuck didn't turn out the way he thought it would.

Instead, Cartman had landed this job immediately out of school. An old fool desperate for young, handsome crews to carry around idiots with too much money to spend. Cartman was basically an Uber driver, the way their clients acted. And as for bagging stewardesses? Well, Kenny was far from Eric's type. No, Eric didn't get the dream. There was no glamour, no envy. All there was was a polyester uniform. He got his stripes, but he got three. Cartman had been going for the commanding position that was open, fully expecting to get it. Mr. Donahue had fallen for his charisma and confidence. But the day he'd gotten his call back to say he'd gotten the position was also the day that he was told it was for First Officer. He'd take a five grand pay cut, but the job was there if he wanted it. Eric's other job option was flying cargo to and from the arctic circle for research groups studying thermonuclear bullshit or something for a fraction of the salary.

Of course he took it. At least this way, he'd make a name for himself. The idea? Save up for his own jet, eventually. Start his own company and steal Mr. Donahue's clients out from under him. They'd go with Eric, of course. Everyone adored him. The charismatic pilot who took them to Dubai. The clients wouldn't have an attachment to Mr. Donahue, but they would with Eric by the end of it. The only issue was; they loved Stan more. He was smart, he was funny, he was so good looking even Cartman had to agree with them. He was good at his job, and was a stickler for safety. Which meant Stan had to come with him, when Eric's plans for starting his own charter company became reality. He was an alright guy, and over the last couple years, Eric figured they could call each other best friends.

Sounded juvenile, but it wasn't as if either of them had anyone else.

And then there was Kenny. The other closest thing Eric could call a friend. Out of the three of them, Kenny had been working for Mr. Donahue the longest. Since he was twenty, ready and willing to do grunt work. Kenny had said that Mr. Donahue had hired him purely on his looks. Eric would be hard pressed to argue. While Kenny was the last person on the planet Eric would be attracted to, he couldn't deny why others would be. Blonde, bronzed and over all beautiful to look at. Until, of course, his body parts were flung across the airfield because he'd walked into a propeller.

Stan liked him, though. That much was clear just sitting by and watching them. It was almost sickening. But Eric highly enjoyed the hours he could spend watching his captain grow flustered from the teasing. Entertainment was hard to come by in the cockpit.

All in all, Eric enjoyed his job. From taking bachelor parties to Vegas, in which Kenny had decided that rather than hire strippers for the flight he'd do it himself in a tight blue dress and a rendition of Toxic, to Stan discharging the fire extinguisher on a woman and her ankle biting dog for refusing to put out her cigarette.

He didn't, however, expect to crash the fucking plane so early in his career. And yet, here he was, entirely sure he had died and gone to hell.

Eric woke in pain, every ounce of his body aching and bright light shining in his eyes. Wherever he was, Kenny had joined him, judging by his stupid voice nattering in his ear. Eric wanted to push him away, but there was no way he was moving his arm. "Screw off, Kinny," he whined, just wanting to go back to sleep.

But when he opened his eyes, Cartman concluded that he was absolutely in hell. Some pointy nosed ginger stood over him. Absolutely great. Cartman heard him talk about his dislocated shoulder, how he was gonna fix it, and Eric pitched a fit that rivaled any toddler he'd ever seen.

All that had happened in the short minutes he'd had since he woke up was him screaming at some Jew that took it upon himself to sit on him and pop his shoulder into place. Fuck, the pain was unreal and made worse by it being popped back into place. Eric pushed him off, the two of them screaming until the ginger twat went off to join his stupid little rich friends.

But Kenny sat beside him, smacking him on his injured shoulder. Eric swore, flipping Kenny off. "You're such a fucking asshole," Kenny said, and Eric ignored him in favour of looking at Stan. He was laying back in the sand now, staring up at the blue sky. He looked miserable. Hell, Eric supposed they all did. "Gonna just lay there and wait for the tide to come in?" Eric asked him, kicking at Stan's leg to get him to move a little. "Some captain you are." Stan just threw an arm over his face, groaning in pain as he did so.

"Pretty sure I'm out of a job now, dude," Stan moaned. "Captain's don't crash their plane."

Wendy and Bebe had walked the perimeter of the island. They'd estimated it had taken about two hours, start to finish. It wasn't large, and there weren't a chain of other islands that they could see. But most certainly, there wasn't anyone else on the island but them. She and Wendy had found s few traces of humans, of course. Plastic bottles, some old netting, a few other useless debris that had washed up on to a small coastal shelf several hundred feet away from where they'd landed. But that was the closest sign of human life. They'd gathered it, of course. They could collect water in the bottles. Use the net for fishing or rope to build something to keep them out of the sun and rain. Surely they'd be here for a few days at the shortest, until they died at the longest.

But Wendy was never one to give up, and Bebe had loved her for it since the day they'd been partnered to work together years ago. On their walk, she and Wendy had discussed a game plan. The coconut trees would offer a source of fluids, a bit of food. Craig and Firkle were smokers, and one of them would have at least one lighter in their pocket. They'd get fire, easily. Coconut husk was a good source of tinder. Bebe's dangle earrings would make a decent fishing hook or two. Her long decorative necklace of beads and stones were held together by a thin plastic string, and Bebe didn't have a problem pulling it over her head and pulling the clasps off for them all to fall off. Wendy had let her store them in her hat, maybe to be of use later or to repair if they got home and Bebe wanted to do something with them.

With a stick, Bebe fashioned an earring and the string into a rudimentary fishing rod. Wendy had stood on her toes to give the girl a quick peck. "Perfect," Wendy said. "One thing we don't have to worry about. We should be able to grab something to hook on to it as bait."

Bebe wished that Wendy wasn't here with her, that Wendy had done what she hadn't wanted and spent spring break in Paris. Instead, after much begging and bikini shopping slash modeling, Bebe had convinced her to throw her Europe money in the pool to book the jet and rooms down in Turks. But she couldn't help but be thankful that Wendy was here with her now, a security blanket in this shitty situation. The boys were her friends, but Bebe knew that an island full of boys wasn't an ideal situation to be a part of. Bebe squeezed Wendy's hand, stopping their walk to look down at her. "I'm really sorry," Bebe said, voice soft. "You wouldn't be here if I hadn't begged you to come."

Wendy gave a sad smile to her girlfriend, the sadnesses not directed at Bebe, but at Bebe's guilt. "It's not your fault, you couldn't have planned this. No one could have." Bebe supposed that was true. Unless the pilots had done it intentionally, but when they'd left them on the beach, they looked like a couple of sad potato sacks. Continuing on their walk, Bebe swung their arms between them, one hand clutching her makeshift fishing rod. "I hope they're not worried about me," Bebe sighed. She left school a few years ago, focusing fully on her beauty and fitness blog. What had started out as instagram fame turned into a nice little following on YouTube. She wasn't nearly as big as some of the others, not having even hit eight hundred thousand subscribers. But the money from ads and sponsorships were enough to not only pay her out of her student loans, but to cover Wendy's. It had been a horrible fight when Bebe had done it behind her back, but it was more money than Bebe had enough sense to do with at the time. And she loved Wendy, would give her the moon on a string if she could. If Bebe had the capabilities to take every worry away, she would have and Wendy would have done the same for her in a heart beat.

Call them uhaul lesbians, but Bebe had known she was the one from the first night together.

"No doubt. I wouldn't be surprised if we're on the news already. It's pretty clear when a plane goes missing. And the pilots must have called a distress call. They'll release our names and the internet will explode. You'll probably go home to triple the subscribers, wondering where you are and what happened." Bebe nodded, not thinking of it that way. Trust Wendy to see the advantage in a horrible situation, making the most of it. If they made it out alive, Bebe's story would bring in millions of views. If they didn't, people were morbid and would flock to her old videos to see the girl who died in a plane crash days before it happened. Her family could use the money. "True. Not all bad, I suppose. I still feel guilty though. I wish you weren't here, but I'm also incredibly happy you are. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Upon reaching their initial landing point, Bebe and Wendy decided to head to the three cabin crew still seated on the sand by the bright yellow life raft. It reminded Bebe of Kenny the Steward telling her to remove her heels, lest she pop the boat. They'd been Louboutins, and Bebe mourned them silently. Now she was stuck, bare footed, nothing pretty to look at except Wendy.

"You alright, guys?" Bebe asked, and Kenny looked up. "They'll survive. They don't know how to deal with trauma, apparently." It seemed true, both the pilots laying in the wet sand. "In their defense, they're pretty banged up," Kenny continued, running his hand through the captain's sandy, sweaty hair. "He's got some fucked up ribs, a cracked head and concussion, and fat ass has a dislocated shoulder and I'm thinking a sprained wrist. And an attitude problem," the blonde said, as the first officer reached his hand up to flip him off.

"This is Stan, Stan Marsh," Kenny gestured to the one whose head was in his lap. "Otherwise known as Captain Marsh, Skipper, or Skip if you prefer. He's Eric Cartman, first officer. On behalf of all of us, we're really fucking sorry." There wasn't much to say to it, really. Bebe couldn't very well say 'it's okay.' Because it wasn't okay. None of this was okay. There was not certainty that things would end up okay.

"What happened, anyway?" Wendy asked, and Bebe had been wondering it herself. She hadn't thought it polite to ask, since surely they were sensitive of it. But in Wendy's defense, they deserved to know. Stan, the captain, opened his eyes and stared up at them. Bebe would initially be slightly offended that he was looking at her chest, but he wasn't. He was looking at Wendy. Bebe subconsciously pulled her petite girlfriend closer to her, fully intending to send signals that the ravenette was hers. The pilot didn't seem to notice, or care. Perhaps Bebe was paranoid, then. But she held firm, nonetheless. "I..," he said. "I don't know. I really don't. We got warning of engine failure, from fires. Then then second one went, as well. We radioed an emergency, and got Flordia once. They have our call sign and make, how many of us are on board. But after that, nothing. Then the altimeters went, followed by every other warning and instrument. The avionics stopped working... Everything did. There wasn't anything I could do..."

Bebe's heart sunk for him. The poor thing sounded genuinely heart broken, his voice cracking as if he was about to cry. And Bebe couldn't handle seeing a grown man look so helpless. "Oh, honey..," she said softly, letting go of Wendy's hand to crouch down beside Kenny. "I'm sorry, ladies. I really, really am. I had one job, and I failed." Bebe gave him a small smile, and patted him on the cheek. "It's okay, sweetheart," she said. "We've got a group of bright little bulbs here. I'm sure we'll be just fine. Like you said, they heard your call. They'll find us any day now. Why don't you come up with us, hmm? I'll have some of the boys bring that raft up, it'll make a good shelter for all of us."

"I want the blonde to help me," the first officer whined, and Bebe couldn't help but roll her eyes. She supposed out of the three of them that were able, she was the strongest. Unless Kenny had some wiry strength to him. Wendy was small, and strong in her own ways. But Bebe? She hit the gym five days a week, ran every morning, and had a rather impressive set of guns on her, if she did say so herself. "It's Bebe, not blonde," she said, voice haughty but she went over nonetheless. "You guys help Captain Marsh, I'll take care of this one." She slipped the fishing rod into her pants, moving to go help the first officer by taking his good arm over her shoulder and hoisting him up. Christ, he was heavy, even for her. But she could handle it, so long as he didn't put all of his weight on her.

"What kind of name is Bebe?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes.

"A beautiful one," Wendy called, where she was helping Kenny lift Stan to his feet as comfortably as possible.


	5. PAX

Firkle had a plethora of lighters in his carry on backpack that he'd snatched from under the seat on his way to the raft. Out of everyone on board, only Firkle, Bebe and Butters had sense to grab something on the way out. Ike couldn't really say anything, since he'd had his stuff in the overhead and hadn't time to fiddle with grabbing it. All he had was his phone, quickly dying and without service, and his wallet in his pockets. Thankfully they'd managed to stay dry. Butters had grabbed his tote bag, which was filled with useless shit and a few snacks that he insisted on saving. Bebe had left her purse with them, but no one had gone through it, all the boys worried about snooping through a woman's things. But Firkle? Oh, Ike could have kissed him. Firkle went nowhere without being prepared. At least, technology wide. Who'd have thought to bring a solar charger?

"We're going to the beach," Firkle said, voice monotonous, as if it was obvious. "I'm not going to sit in the shade without an outlet, I was going to binge watch Jessica Jones." Stick the thing in the sun, you got juice. Along with his chords, charge blocks, solar charger, Firkle had lighters. A few packs of smokes. Three family sized bags of skittles, Ike and Fillmore each claiming a bag for themselves.

"Dibs on the sour," Filmore demanded, grabbing the pack before Ike had a chance too. Fuckhead. Firkle got first choice, picking tropical. The irony. Which left Ike with the shitty pack of plain. He supposed it was better than nothing. "Asshole," Ike huffed, sifting through all the other shit in Firkle's backpack. Ike had taken charge priority on the charger, his phone and the red brick sitting in the sun waiting to power up. Oh he was soooo fucking glad he downloaded the whole series of Orange is the New Black to his phone. Netflix Offline was a blessing, and Ike had half a mind to send them an edible arrangement in thanks if he ever made it out of here.

When everything was sitting out neatly on Filmore's discarded shirt, Ike spoke, "We have three packs of skittles, already allocated to each of us. Next we have a chocolate pudding, which we'll have to eat before it goes bad. There's a few packs of cookies Firkle swiped from the plane, which gives us three packs each. A bottle of triple x vitamin water which is already half gone. And two minis of Smirnoff. I say we mix the vitamin water and Smirnoff and enjoy it later with the skittles. Or we mix them with skittles." That was it for anything edible, except for a pack of halls that they'd keep on the chance one of them got sick. Fuck the others, they could starve. Kyle and his friends hadn't wanted them here, only allowing them to come to help cut down the costs. The three of them collectively decided to hoard the snacks. Hell, Ike was grateful Firkle was open to sharing. But they were a team.

"Oh, hold on," Firkle said, going into the backpack and ripping open the false bottom. They hadn't gone through any security at the small airfield, but Firkle wasn't going to be careless. Out he pulled a smell proof bag, followed by a Ziploc of weed and a pipe. "I love you," Filmore sounded completely serious, but Ike had to agree. "Hide it, Kyle will give me shit," Ike said, looking over his shoulder to make sure none of the others were watching them. They weren't, focused on the pilots and Kenny. Bebe was showing off what looked to be a stick, and Butters seemed way to excited over it. Whatever, Ike didn't care.

Firkle put away the bag into his black backpack, and Ike continued on to the non-edibles. "We've got a bottle of Advil, which will come in handy. An Exacto, because Firkle was going to do arts and crafts or some shit..." Ike wondered briefly if Firkle had brought it for self harming purposes, but since they'd last spoke of it, Firkle swore he'd stopped. Ike wasn't going to reprimand him for starting again. The band-aids that followed sort of confirmed that suspicion, but Ike didn't comment. He made the mental note to keep it away from him. While things were fun and games right now, Ike didn't think they'd stay that way. In a dark place, where there wasn't hope for survival, the last thing Ike needed was to bury one of his best friends. The thought sobered him up. They'd pre-gamed on the flight, all three of them landing on the island with a slight buzz that was now faded from Ike's system. One look at Filmore and Firkle showed the same thing. "We'll be grateful for when we need to gut fish or if we get hurt. Maybe we should keep the alcohol for disinfecting..." Filmore said, turning one of the bottles over in his palms.

Ike nodded, continuing on. "There's two iPhone chords, a micro USB, and two power bricks. We can continuously charge the bricks with the solar charger, when we're not using it for phones. The key is to keep them dry, if it rains. Everything can go into the smell proof bag, we'll keep the weed in the Ziploc, who cares about the smell. After that, there's four packs of smokes so lets hope we're rescued before Firkle goes into nicotine withdrawal and turns into an even bigger asshole."

Firkle just sent him a nasty look, picking up one of the packs and lighting up. He normally smoked a pack a day, but the idea was to cut back on the trip. Now he'd really have to ration himself. If he limited himself to five a day, he'd have just about two weeks worth. He'd be an asshole alright. "Also, you have a baggie of tension tamer tea... Why?" Ike hadn't ever seen Firkle drink tea. He drank dark roast coffee. Burned, even. Because he was a fucking lunatic. "I brought it for you," Firkle said. "You get tense when exposed to heat." Well, Firkle wasn't wrong... They were in the shade, thankfully. But Ike wasn't built for this weather. He grew up in the Rockies of Colorado, cold enough already most of the time. But the real kicker was his Canadian body. It was clear, with his dark eyes and large mouth, where he came from. His body temperature was naturally lower by a few degrees, which meant any heat was that much hotter.

And boy, did Ike turn into a right cow when he was overheating. "Thanks, Firk," Ike said, rather touched by the gesture.

"Here," Firkle said, pulling out a rolled joint from the cigarette pack. "This can be your present, you jealous prick." He handed it to Filmore, who sat between them looking sour that he didn't get anything special from their friend. He lit up, both himself and the joint. Filmore was always pushy, and Firkle wasn't in much of a mood to deal with his bullshit right now. He was feeling pleasant, which would likely soon pass. "The last few things are," Ike said, reaching over to swipe the joint from Filmore's hand for a quick inhale. "A black eyeliner, a notebook, pen and Firkle's ereader." Upon inspection, it was filled with what Ike would have expected anyway. Edgar Allen Poe's collective works, Catcher in the Rye, Lolita, Othello... 1984, Fahrenheit 451...

"Dude," Ike said, stopping on a page in his library. He bit down on his cheek, trying not to laugh. Filmore turned to look at the ereader Ike held out for them both to see. Fifty Shades, all three of them. Filmore burst into laughter, blocking Firkle's way as he reached to try and take the Kindle out of Ike's hands. "I'm reading it ironically," Firkle said, voice flat. It was always flat, but Ike and Filmore had been friends with him long enough to hear the slight embarrassment in his voice.

"We believe you," Filmore smirked, blowing a puff of smoke at the goth. Firkle responded by pressing the lit end of his cigarette into Filmore's arm. "Fuck!" Filmore cursed, smacking at Firkle's hand. "You're such a shithead!" It didn't break the skin, not being in contact long enough to do much damage. But it left a red welt, soot behind. Filmore stuck his hand out expectantly. "Kiss it better, you ass." Firkle responded by flicking it.

Fifty feet away, the others had dragged the yellow life raft from the water and onto the area where sand began to turn into grass. Craig and Tweek had focused on one task after the other, first digging out a hole in the sand. Then they filled it with small rocks. After that, they went and gathered larger ones to build a perimeter around it. While they did this, Craig had asked Butters if he wouldn't mind finding some wood and some tinder. Ever helpful, Butter's made quick work of it. While the girls tended to the pilots, Kyle had gone off in search of some form of water or food with Kenny. This left Craig and Tweek with much needed alone time, allowing Craig to softly talk Tweek into a state of calm.

For anyone else, Tweek's calm would be considered a serious break down. But for Tweek, it was almost normal. And for that, Craig was thankful. Nothing broke his heart more than watching him descend into such a pit of despair. He loved Tweek. The blonde was the most important person in Craig's dull, boring life. And maybe they weren't _in love_ anymore, but they were still each other's everything. Their relationship had been over for several months now, Tweek ending it when he could clearly see how he took a toll on Craig's own mental health. Craig had insisted that no, he was fine. But it wasn't the case, and there was no sense lying. Tweek could tell, and it just made him worse. So they'd decided it was better off as friends. Which it was. Nothing much changed. Tweek had never much been a fan of kissing, rarely wanted sex. Asexual, he said. He'd looked it up on the internet, apparently. One of Tweek's points for their break up was that it wasn't fair to Craig. So long as Craig was in Tweek's life, Tweek was happier. Calmer. And Craig went no where. They still lived together, still climbing into Tweek's bed when he woke up screaming from night terrors, holding him until he fell back asleep.

Until someone who was capable of loving Tweek the way he needed to be, Craig was going nowhere. And in turn, Tweek didn't mind if Craig went out with others. He rarely did. Craig was a miserable asshole, and not many people found it all too attractive. Not that it was any skin off his back.

Butters returned shortly after they'd finished their pit, his shirt removed and tied into a sack filled with branches and coconut husk. "Thanks, Butters," Craig said, pulling it out and forming it in the pit while Butter's took a seat beside Tweek.

"How you doin', fella?" Butters asked, voice soft and kind as it almost always tended to be. He was good with Tweek, patient. Craig appreciated it. "Jeez," Craig heard Tweek say, and he felt Tweek reach for the back of his shirt to hold on to. "It's..! It's stressful! What if we die!?" Butter's laughed softly behind him. "Oh, don't worry, Tweek! We'll be just fine. Got lotsa smart people, here. It'll be just like our holiday, only instead of a resort, we're camping!"

"But..! The bugs. Oh god, the bugs! I hate mosquitoes! Agh. Tiny vampires. And snakes! And crabs! Pinching, pinching! Oh, God!"

Craig scrunched the tinder under the bundle of wood, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a bic. Flicking it into a flame, Craig ignited the husk and blew until the flame grew bigger. He listened to Butters try and console Tweek. "It'll be okay, buddy. We'll all sleep in the raft, nice and comfy and off the sand. Wendy and Bebe are gonna make it a roof, they've already drawn up a plan! Look here!"

Once Craig had gotten the fire going, he sat back and took Tweek's hand in his and looked at the small note pad that must have been in Bebe's purse. Sure enough, there was a rough sketch of their idea. Sticks propped up in the four corners of the raft, held together at the top by vines and more sticks. It created what reminded Craig of the base of the Eiffel Tower. On top were a bunch of scribbles, an arrow pointing at it labeled 'net with palm leaves.' Over all, it seemed pretty impressive. The raft was big enough for all of them, technically designed to hold about twenty four, if the small food and water rations inside of it were to go by. "Impressive," Craig said, lifting his head up to see Bebe cooing over Captain Marsh. Ridiculous.

"You okay here with Butters for a bit, Tweek?" Craig asked, and Tweek nodded, letting got of Craig's hand. Standing, Craig brushed the sand off his jeans and walked over. "Nice work, Bebe." He handed the notebook over, but Bebe smiled, looking up from the first officer and gestured to Wendy. "Wasn't me, thank Wendy." Craig gave the dark haired girl a nod, and Wendy gave him a smile before she returned to chatting with Captain Marsh. "Any of you up to helping me look for this shit? Sunset's in a few hours, and I think we'd all fare a bit better with some shelter." Wendy was about to offer herself up, but Stan put an arm on her knee and pushed himself off the sand with a grunt. "I'll come. I'm sick of sitting around in pain." Craig rolled his eyes, but accepted all the same. "Let's go, then."

They walked up into the forest of coconut palms and other trees that Craig had no idea. "Feeling any better?" Craig asked, not really caring but he decided to be civil. Stan shrugged. "Yeah, s'pose so. Hurts like a bitch, but it almost feels worse sitting. At least I can distract myself. Cartman's a useless sack of shit, though. But he's loving the attention from Wendy and Bebe. I doubt he'll move for the next few days. I half expect Bebe to fanning him with palm leaves while feeding him grapes." Yeah, that'd be the day. Maybe they'd see her doing that with Wendy. But Bebe always was a caretaker, he supposed.

"We need four branches, probably about four to five feet in height," Craig said, scanning for thin trees that they could break, or branches to rip off. "Then we need ones probably about fifteen in length..." Craig looked at the picture, wondering what on earth they were going to use to support the center. "Wendy's blueprint isn't perfect." Craig said, Stan coming to stand close beside him to look at it. "We'll need support beams on each corner. About forty five degrees, so eight and a half feet or so should do it. At least for the width. The length is about seven, so about six feet should do it..." Craig spoke mostly to himself, pulling the pen out of the spiral to flip the page and draw a quick sketch, writing down the dimensions of the raft. "Keep an eye out for anything long enough, and I'll gather those if you can manage to grab some of this viney shit..."

Stan nodded, keeping close to Craig so they wouldn't get separated as they went about their assigned tasks. Craig had manage to get his hands on a couple easy to snap off trees over the course of twenty minutes. It was rather cathartic, breaking shit. "So, what do you do, Mr. Tucker?" Stan asked, grunting with pain and breathing hard as he yanked vines off of a tree nearby. Craig pursed his lips together, not wanting to talk about his personal life. "Craig. And civil engineering. Nothing special." He wasn't quite finished his studies, but he was close enough. "That's cool," Stan called out, wrapping vines around his waist to keep them from getting tangled. Craig rolled his eyes. "Don't sound so sarcastic."

"I'm not," Stan argued. "It _is_ cool." After a few moments of silence, Stan spoke again and Craig groaned. "People tell you it was stupid?"

"Yep," Craig said, short. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about this shit with the man who got them stuck on this fucking island.

Bending over a tree, Craig climbed on top of it and jumped up and down until it snapped, leaving him with a length of about fifteen feet. He dragged it to the pile of the others. About a third of the way done. But Stan was still trying to talk to him. "I know what that's like," he said, and Craig turned to stare at him. He was a big guy, though not as tall as Craig was himself. But Craig wanted to snap him like a tree as well. "Yeah? Well, maybe they were fucking right. You got a bunch of people stranded on an island." Stan stopped what he was doing, moving over to stand in front of Craig. "Listen, man. I had no control. None. The controls went haywire. There were dual engine fires. My co-pilot's yoke was out of commission. We did our walk around. The mechanics hadn't noticed anything off. I don't know what happened, and I tried my fucking best. I radioed, I only got one reply before the radio was shot." Craig rolled his eyes, not giving a fuck about Stan's excuses. But Stan wouldn't let up, apparently, because he kept going. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be completely out of control? My whole job is _control_. I had none. I tried so fucking hard, and it wasn't enough. I fucking get it, so if you could kindly shut the fuck up, it'd be appreciated."

"If you were going to lecture me, you should have just stayed behind," Craig said, and shook his head in exasperation as Stan grunted in frustration. "Who else am I supposed to blame, huh? It's not my fault. And apparently it's not yours, either."

Stan leaned against a tree, looking exhausted already though they hadn't been out here long. "I'm sorry," Stan said, staring down at his feet. The look on his face had Craig feeling slightly guilty, and he hated it. "I'll try to make this right, I swear."


	6. Steward

The island wasn't large, but the interior was thick with overgrowth. Kyle wondered if there had ever been a human to walk here, since the island's creation. He doubted not. When Wendy and Bebe had returned, they said it wasn't very large. That it likely wasn't on any maps, seeing as it was rather insignificant. Butter's thought that perhaps pirates landed once on the island, that surely out of the billions of the people that have ever lived, someone must have been here. Kyle supposed that there was a chance, but he highly doubted that there was some sort of secret pirate treasure left on a shitty little island like this. They'd have never likely found it, if they had. And if they did, they'd have found it anyway. It was senseless to debate with Butter's on it, the blonde believing what he wanted. So Kyle had grown frustrated, volunteering to go find them something to eat. The others stayed behind to manage Stan and his offensive co-pilot, build a fire, and figure out some form of shelter. But Kenny had come with him, not wanting Kyle to be off on his own apparently.

"So, how do you know our little Skipper?" Kenny asked, legs jumping over fallen and bent trees covered with creepers. Kyle had to do a light jog to keep up with him. Kyle couldn't help but feel a little offended that Stan hadn't seemed to mention him ever. He was unsure of how long Stan had known Kenny, but never a talk in all that time of his first serious relationship? Kyle supposed he couldn't be too upset by it. He himself rarely mentioned Stan, and when he did it was in passing and he was always labeled 'my ex in high school'. But still.. It hurt, a little. "We dated for most of high school," Kyle explained, reaching out to grab the back of Kenny's shirt and yanking him back before he fell into a large hole almost entirely disguised by fallen debris and plant life. Kenny looked down, thanking Kyle before he paused to let him continue. Like there was much more to the story.

Well, they were alone, and Kyle doubted he'd see Kenny again if they ever got off this island. Why not talk to someone about it? "We fought a lot, towards the end. He was so focused on the damn flying. Didn't give a shit about anything else. Gave up football, hockey, school. He was smart, talented. He'd have gotten somewhere, but he put everything aside for flying. It pissed me off," Kyle continued, stopping and pointing up to a tree laden with coconuts. It seemed easy enough to get there, if one of them gave each other a boost. "Boost me?" Kyle asked, and Kenny nodded, bending down with his fingers interlocked for Kenny to hoist him up to rip some of the coconuts down. "Careful," Kyle said, wincing when a small one hit Kenny square in the face. "Sorry..." Too late, apparently.

"It's alright, I'm fine," Kenny laughed, pushing Kyle up higher with a grunt. "Carry on," he said.

"Anyway, we got into fights all the time right? And he ripped me a new one about spending all my time focusing on grades and my academic resume. That I was wasting my own time, that by the time I was even close to finishing studying, Stan would already be working. That he was further along in his career than I ever was. That's it, you can let go." Kenny let go, Kyle dropping the few feet to land on the island's floor, wincing a little as his ankle twisted slightly. Kyle had seen Butters fashion a bag from his blue tee shirt, but the idea of removing the white button up to expose his skin in the sun wasn't one he was all to keen on. Kyle looked over to Kenny, asking with his eyes for his shirt.

Kenny rolled his eyes, smiling all the same as he removed the black uniform shirt. "You can always ask, I'll never deny stripping for a pretty thing like you," Kenny crooned, pulling the shirt up and over his head and handing it to Kyle. He tried the sleeves up in a knot, before tossing the coconuts into it. "Sorry. I just... I burn. I want to avoid it as much as I can. And you look like you tan, so..." Kenny was all bronzed, and standing there in the jungle with shaggy blonde hair and no shirt... Well, he wasn't half bad to look at, really. Kenny caught him looking, stuck his lips out in a pout before popping his hips in a pose.

"You're a better model when you're not trying," Kyle laughed, tossing the shirt sack over his shoulder. They walked through the jungle further, Kenny nudging him and pointing to a small stream. Likely salt water, but it was worth a follow just in case there was some sort of fresh water they could drink. With any luck, they got the fire going and could boil it up and not die of dehydration. "You know," Kenny said after a few moments. "Stan's a good pilot. One of the best I've seen. He's good at it. People like him, think he's wonderful." Kyle didn't expect Stan's coworker and friend not to come to his defense, so he was expecting it. A rational part of him knew that their break up was both of them, but the irrational and bitter part of him just wanted to blame Stan. "He loves it. I don't know if you love what you do, if it makes you as happy as flying does Stan. And I don't know you. But he's got a chip in his shoulder about people thinking what he does isn't as impressive as it is. I hope you didn't contribute to it." Kyle felt like he was being scolded by a parent. Somehow it felt worse. A man he barely knew clearly could read enough into his and Stan's history with a few pieces of information to know that yeah, Kyle did contribute to it.

Kyle felt the need to defend himself. "He said similar shit to me, though."

"Believe me, I know Stan isn't perfect and I don't know how much of a little shit he was when he was a teenager," Kenny said hopping over to Kyle's side of the stream as it began to get larger, going up a small slope in what felt like the center of the island. "But I know he's an awesome guy, whose good at his job. Kinda bums me out when people talk like what he does isn't valuable. Especially when those people hire him because they can't do it themselves." Kyle pursed his lips, bumping Kenny with the sack of coconuts. "Yeah, yeah, I get it." Kyle huffed. "I was nasty to him. I know. And then he was nasty back. And we exploded and never spoke to each other again. I just... I hope he doesn't hate me, or something. I haven't seen him in like, ten years."

"So why does it matter what he thinks about you now?" Kenny asked, and Kyle wondered for a moment if there was something there. That Kenny's defense of Stan wasn't just because he was a friend. Kyle wasn't much interested in Stan that way, anyway. Whatever they had was long over, no spark, no attraction. But Kyle still cared what Stan thought. They'd been friends their whole lives, until they weren't. And seeing Stan again made him want that again. That close friendship that they lost.

Kyle... Kyle wanted to be friends again, at least while together on this stupid island. Maybe it was supposed to happen. "I want him to like me, I want to be friends. I know it's probably hopeless, but if we're gonna be here together, I'd like to try and work shit out. We super best friends, man. Seeing him here makes me miss it." Kenny shook his head beside him, laughing lightly. But there was a small threat in his voice when he spoke. "Don't make it worse, please. He's already beating himself up pretty bad. He's just gotten where he wanted and now he's pretty sure his career is over. He could use another friend, just don't do something stupid like... I dunno, lead him on or blame him. There was nothing he could do about this but hope not to die. Pretty shitty when you can't come back from that shit."

Kyle was confused, eyebrows knitting together trying to understand the last bit. He didn't press it. Besides, there were more important things at the moment. Such as the pool of water they'd come across. Centered so nicely, shaped from large rocks. Likely the foundation of the island, sand building up over time to form the island. Or something. Kyle wasn't an expert of geology, and he knew next to nothing about it. "Think it's fresh?" Kenny asked, and Kyle shrugged. "Not sure. Could be, if it's just caught from rain water. But if it's fed from the ocean, then I doubt it." But it didn't look as if there were any other entry points of water, just the bit that trickled out from the small stream. It wasn't too large, the pool. Kyle guessed maybe eighteen feet in diameter, nine or ten feet deep. But it was clear, and seemed to host a small variety of crabs and snails at the bottom and on the rock walls.

"Only one way to test," Kenny said, vaulting over a trunk of a fallen tree to the edge of it. "Kenny, there could be parasites..." Kyle warned, but Kenny was already lifting a palm full of water to his lips. "Tastes fine," the blonde said. "It's fresh water. Rain water, like you said." Storms were common, and the water would have either collected somewhere, evaporated or ran into the ocean. Kyle was just glad they found it. "We'll still need to boil it. Don't want anyone to get si-" Kenny stopped talking, watching Kenny jump into the pool. Kyle leaned over the log, watching Kenny head to the bottom before kicking off the rock and shooting back to the surface. He tossed his hair out of his face, and Kyle couldn't help but burst into laughter at the mental comparison to him and The Little Mermaid. "You're a true Disney princess, Kenny," Kyle commented.

Kenny's face lit up, treading water with one arm and his legs as he placed a decent sized crab on his head. The claws clung to his hair, thinking it dangerous. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me! Princess Kenny!" Kyle grinned, fond of Kenny already in the hours since they'd met. Offering a hand, Kyle helped pull Kenny out of the water. "Let's get back, we've got something to eat for now, and know where to get water. It'll be dark soon." The sun was lowering in the sky quickly, and Kyle had no desire to be in the interior of the jungle during the night.

Eric liked Bebe. She was witty, funny, and a sight for sore eyes, that was for damn sure. A lipstick lesbian, too, which was a bit of a bummer but Eric figured there wasn't much harm in looking. Especially since shortly after the others had pissed off, she'd complained of the heat and stripped out of her blouse and leggings to walk around their little encampment in a matching set of pink underwear, Her girlfriend, a know it all named Wendy, gave him a smack for staring. "What? She's a babe!" Wendy narrowed her eyes, flicking a little bead that bounced off his cheek. "I'm aware, but it's not polite to stare," she snapped, and Eric held up a hand in surrender. "Chill, woman," Cartman batted away the beads that she shot his way.

Bebe didn't seem to mind, though, prancing about in her underpants for all of them to see. Wendy's protests didn't stop him from staring, either. She stood on her toes, leg muscles tensing as she reached up to hang her clothes out on a tree branch to dry after she'd washed the sand from them in the ocean. Cartman figured she was used to stares, and judging by the way she swayed while she walked, Eric wouldn't doubt that she often used it to her advantage. Dangerous woman. "You're damn lucky," he nodded to Wendy, both of them staring as Bebe adjusted her breasts into her bra. She sported them looking, grabbed a hold of her boobs and gave them a full body jiggle.

Wendy's face flushed with what Eric guessed to be both embarrassment at her girlfriends antics, and appreciation for it.

Bebe bounded back over, tits and ass bouncing in what Eric could swear was slow motion. She brought with her a large bag, sitting down close beside Wendy across from Cartman. "Anything good in there, Baywatch?" Eric nodded to it, propping himself up better on the tree he was leaned against. Bebe nodded, dumping the contents onto the sand. "Oh yeah! A lady never leaves home without being prepared." She offered Wendy a bar of chocolate, and Eric's eyes widened at the sight. Wendy rolled her eyes, ripping the foil off and splitting it three ways and handing a piece each to him and Bebe.

Both he and Bebe shoveled the whole piece into their mouths. "You're both pigs," Wendy commented, rolling her eyes while Bebe dug through a small zippered bag to pull out a compact mirror. "Signal mirror," Bebe said, placing each thing meticulously in the pile of what Eric thought was just random female junk. "Razor. Because I am not getting hairy legs." She shivered at the thought of it, and Wendy just stared at her, flabbergasted as to why that would even be in her purse. "Make up. Hair brush. Dry shampoo..." Bebe started listing everything in her little make up pouch. "Ooh, hair ties!" Slipping a couple onto her wrist, Bebe handed the bag for Wendy to go through so she could move behind her girlfriend, hair brush in hand. She's brushed out the knots as Wendy searched, Eric thoroughly enjoying himself. He could almost pretend he was peeking in on a sleep over, watching as Bebe plaited Wendy's long black hair into an intricate braid, tying it off with an eslatic. "Can you hand me the bobby pins?" Bebe asked, and Wendy dug through the pouch to hand her a little piece of paper with a bunch slipped onto it.

"Babe, why do you have lube?" Wendy asked, holding up a small little squeeze tube of it. Bebe just grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before she twisted the braid up into an intricate knot on her head. "And condoms?" Eric laughed at Wendy's faces, eyes narrowed as if she was expecting the worst answer. "Because were traveling with a bunch of boys, and they forget everything. Never hurts to be prepared. Plus, what would we have done if we got super drunk and decided to have a resold with a hot young man?" Bebe winked over Wendy's shoulder at Eric, bursting into giggles as Wendy smacked at her thigh.

"Don't give him any ideas," she snipped at the blonde, and Bebe moved around their little circle to prop Eric up from the tree, kneeling behind him with hair brush and bobby pins in hand. "Oh, please do," Eric said. "It helps me forget the pain," he whined, dramatic as Bebe peered down at him. He put on his best pout, and Bebe grinned down at him, before pressing a little kiss to his forehead. "Look, he's sad, Wendy." She held Cartman's head in her hand, leaning down to press her cheek against the side of his head to pout with him. "Let him dream."

"That's all he's doing, dreaming. You wouldn't know what to do with him anyway," Wendy huffed, putting the make up items back into the little bag as Bebe brushed Eric's brown hair from his eyes, shaking the sand away from his scalp. Eric closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of her fingers massaging at his scalp. "Christ," he moaned, feeling her fingers dig into the skin. It was like she was releasing the pressure. How had he never known that someone playing with his hair felt so fucking good? They were all silent for a few minutes, aside from Bebe's questionable little giggles every now and then. But with her fingers in his hair, Eric didn't care. Every now and then, he'd open his eyes and glance to Wendy, who bit back a smirk and kept sorting through the shit from Bebe's purse. There was a pause as Bebe leaned forward to grab something, but Eric didn't catch what it was that Wendy handed her.

They stayed like that for a while, Bebe humming a little tune as she played around with Eric's hair. He recognized the tune, some pop song that he was ashamed to know, and hummed along with her. Bebe must have begun to get into it, he could feel her moving behind him to her humming before she started to sing, Eric joining in with her. Relaxed and rather happy, all things considered.

Until they were rudely interrupted by laughing, and Eric knew Kenny and that stupid ginger returned. Eric cracked an eye open, spotting both Kenny and the Jew doubled over with laughter. "Holy fuck," the redhead wheezed, wiping at his eyes, wet from laughter. "What's so funny," Eric snapped, sitting back up. Behind him, he heard Bebe snort, and Wendy's face contorted as she tried to hold back her own laughter. Clearly, Eric wasn't in on the joke. Wendy held out Bebe's compact mirror, and Eric snatched ahold of it before looking at his reflection.

Bebe had weaved his hair with ribbons and bows, almost all of them some shade of pink or in various stage of frill. His hair wasn't long, but it was long enough for several tufts of hair to stand right up, supported by glittery baubles. Eric turned to look behind him, sending Bebe a nasty look as she rolled around in the sand, absolutely dying with laughter at this point. "You're an evil bitch, you know that?" Eric huffed, reaching up to start pulling the shit out of his hair. "You could have at least made it look nice!" He looked like he'd been attacked by a five year old girl at a tea party.

Bebe seemed to take the insult as a compliment, though.

Eric struggled to remove one of the ribbons weaved into a braid from the back of his head, and he was half tempted to give up, unable to use one of his arms. But the ginger came over, fingers digging into his hair to help pull it out. Eric was going to smack him away, something about his face making Eric feel like he needed to out his defenses up. "You ready to thank me, yet," and Eric suddenly realized why he came to help remove the shit from his hair. He felt long fingers cling to it st the roots, not hard enough to hurt, but a clear threat to do as he was told or expect a tug.

"For what?" Eric asked, innocent, trying not to wince as he felt the strands strain at the roots. "For fixing your fucking shoulder. And I also think an apology would be nice, considering you thought it appropriate to use a slur." Eric's head got pulled back until he was looking up at a mop of red curls, green eyes glaring down at him. "I don't apologize to Jews," the larger one said, and Broflovski yanked on his hair, and kneed his injured shoulder. "Okay, okay, fuck! I'm sorry, fuck. Let go!" Eric smacked at the others hand, and Kyle did so in an instant. "Was that so hard?"

Yes. But Eric didn't say so. Out of all the things he'd expected from his life, abuse from some ginger Jew with a clear anger problem wasn't one of them.


	7. Engineering

By the time the sun began to rise, marking their second day on the island, Craig had all but finished his structure. He had worked through the night, by the light of the fire and the stars and moon. It was fairly simple, four legs holding up a rectangle, strengthened by support beams at a forty degree angle to form triangles. He'd held everything into place by chipping notches with a sharp stone, and wrapping every joint with copious amounts of vines. It stood several feet high, and periodically through the night, Craig had hung himself off it to see if it supported his weight on each side.

He was rather pleased to see that it did, and would likely hold more. The next step was to tie some more branches on the roof of the thing, giving palm leaves a platform to rest on. After that, he'd strap them down with more vines, and weigh it down with rocks to keep it from blowing away in the wind.

Despite his hands beginning to blister, the weight of exhaustion from the events of the day before and not sleeping in the night, Craig couldn't help but feel the pride. He'd done this himself, as he preferred. In the middle of the night while they all slept. So far, it was strong and sturdy. Craig was pleased. Really pleased.

As the sun moved up past the horizon, Craig fished trough the goth kid's backpack and stole another smoke before he sat himself on a rock and picked up a brown coconut, digging two of the eyes out with a pair of tweezers Bebe had. He pressed his lips to it, the earthy taste of the husk not bothering him once the flavor of the coconut helped to quench his thirst. With a bit of rum, Craig couldn't help but think he'd be fairly happy in this moment. Hell, even without it, Craig felt himself at a strange place. Calm. Content. Proud. Everyone was quiet, no one was pissing him off. Tweek was asleep, hopefully not worrying about a thing in his dreams. No one was dead, everyone was fairly okay. All in all, there wasn't much to complain about. Odd, as he could complain about anything.

Craig supposed that he could find all sorts of things, really. But the bitching and moaning could wait until later. For now, Craig lit up the pilfered cigarette, and he was happy to enjoy his smoke, a stupid little coconut, and look at his hard work and the sunrise.

Halfway through his smoke, he heard a groan from the raft, followed by a mutter of curse words. Craig turned, watching as their captain carefully pulled himself up and over the inflated walls, stumbling and falling to his knees on the sand. Craig couldn't help but chuckle, watching as the man acted like a foal that'd just been born as he got to his feet. At some point in the night, Stan had removed his uniform. The heat and the humidity must have made it uncomfortable to sleep.

His chest was black and blue with a large bruise, fading into an oil slick of colors towards the edge of it. Aside from that, Craig couldn't help but notice the muscles under the bruised skin. The man's uniform did nothing for him. Hid the strength in his arms and torso. Hell, his thighs and calves looked double the size of Craig's own, all muscle. Did flying make you buff or did the guy hit the gym?

"What?" Stan asked, voice distorted by a yawn as he caught Craig staring. He felt his cheeks burn. "You look like shit," Craig said, shrugging to cover his tracks. He wasn't wrong. Stan did look like shit, just not in the 'you're unattractive' way. Stan looked down, taking a few wobbly steps toward Craig. "Oh, shit," he said, voice slightly slurred from sleep. Craig couldn't help but get a closer look, Stan to distracted by himself to notice.

Stan didn't hit six feet, Craig guessed he was just shy of it. The pilot was nearly all muscle, reminding Craig of college footballers. Craig himself was a large guy, but not in the way Stan was. He was tall, six foot six. Craig's legs made up most of it. Nearly every Halloween he'd be roped into some Tim Burton costume because of it.

Craig was snapped from the memory of getting into a drunken fight with his friend Clyde the year they'd done a Nightmare Before Christmas group costume for Bebe's Halloween party. "Beautiful sunrise," Stan said and Craig shook his head to bring himself back to reality. "Huh?" he said, stupidly. Stan laughed, easing himself down onto the sand beside Craig. "I said it's a beautiful sunrise," the shorter one replied, before poking Craig in the leg.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Stan asked, and Craig shrugged, stubbing out the choke in the sand. "Thinking about how our friend Clyde kicked my ass three years ago, dressed as Oogie Boogie," Craig answered. At Stan's confused look, he elaborated. "We had a group theme at this Halloween party Bebe threw, Nightmare Before Christmas. I was stuck as Jack. I don't even remember what we were fighting about." Hell, Craig didn't even know if he'd see Clyde again. Aside from Tweek, the guy was his best friend. His first kiss, since Clyde had wanted to see if boys were his thing. They weren't. He'd been a lady killer ever since. Craig missed him, more than he'd ever though he'd miss the fucking idiot.

Stan must've seen something on his face, because he didn't elaborate further. "I take it you did all that, then? Did you even go to bed?"

Craig shook his head, offering the last bit of coconut juice to Stan. "Nah. No point in trying. Wouldn't have slept anyway. What about you? Sleep okay?" Craig found it off he cared enough to ask Stan, but he also found himself not caring that he did.

"It was alright, got a couple hours I think. Cartman snores. And Butters talks in his sleep, apparently. Kept singing something about apples and loo loo loo."

"Lu lu lu, I've got some apples. Lu lu lu, you've got some too?" Craig asked, and Stan looked at him with wide eyes, nodding. Craig chuckled. "The next line is about making apple sauce and taking off your clothes. He sings it all the time, none of us know why. Butters is nuts."

Stan laughed, shaking his head. He rubbed at his face again, and Craig watched his tongue run against his teeth. "I wish I had a tooth brush," he said, and Craig couldn't help but agree.

As the day went by, Craig had finished his structure with the help of Wendy, the smallest person on the island being the optimal person to climb on top. Craig had given her a boost, handing her the palms to weave in and out of one another. It took them several hours, making a little small talk as Craig tied down leaves and weights. Mostly he was concerned with talking to Tweek, who stayed by his side the entire time. He offered no help, and Wendy knew well enough that Craig would deny it anyway. While she and Craig weren't close, only a fool couldn't see the love between them. Even if they were no longer together. Wendy was slightly envious watching them, watching as Craig swapped from a sunken faced, miserable looking guy to someone a lot softer. She loved Bebe with all her heart, and knew Bebe did as well. But the love for Tweek that Craig had was different, and Wendy didn't understand it. It also wasn't her place to ask, but oh did she want to.

"We could probably use one more layer," Wendy said, sometime later when they were mostly finished. "But it can wait. Wouldn't be half a bad idea to do some around the sides, as well. Keep some wind out, offer a bit more shade and protection from the rain." Craig nodded in agreement, grunting a little as he tied off his last vine in the center. "We'll get the others to grab some later. Most everyone's gone off to find stuff." While Wendy stayed behind with Tweek and Craig, the others had devided themselves up into groups. On a bit of an excursion, Filmore and Firkle had found a large, dirty plastic bottle washed up in the small alcove where Wendy and Bebe had found their netting. They'd opted to go with Kyle and Ike to gather some water from the pond he and Kenny had found the night before. With Butters, Captain Marsh and Kenny went to find more of the fruits that Bebe had Butters test the day before. He'd said it'd been sweet, similar to a mango. He hadn't died, or gotten sick, and it seemed like a safe bet. That left Bebe and Cartman, who had both decided to take a shot at fishing with the little rod Bebe had made the day before.

Only, when Wendy had looked over to check on them, they'd been goofing off, splashing around in the ocean in their underpants. She took a glance again, Craig following her gaze. Sure enough, Bebe was jumping around, pink underclothes nearly see through from being wet. Eric didn't do much besides stare, occasionally say something that had he and Bebe giggling like grade schoolers. Wendy rolled her eyes. "She's loving his attention," Craig commented, pulling himself up and onto the top of the structure. It barely moved, even with their combined weight.

"Of course she is, he's a Clyde replacement," Wendy laughed. He was really the only one who'd comment on Bebe's appearance, make lewd jokes about her breasts, her ass, everything. Bebe loved it, but only because she knew Clyde wasn't a threat. But Clyde wasn't here. Eric Cartman was apparently the next best thing, appreciating her body and all the hard work Bebe did to maintain it. "Does it bother you, ever?" Craig asked, and Wendy shook her head. "Not really. It's not like Bebe would do anything." As flirty and vivacious as she was, Wendy's girlfriend was as lesbian as they came. She'd used boys for shoes, for compliments, for anything she needed but she loved her ladies. It was Wendy who fell in the middle of the queer spectrum, where Bebe was at the end of it.

"She's a bit wary of our Captain, though. According to her, he was checking me out. Which I doubt, since he seems to have eyes for Kenny." Wendy had to bite back a smirk at the slight change in facial expression on Craig at that comment, and Wendy stored it away for future gossip use. Did their Craig have a little bit of a crush, she wondered. Stan Marsh was cute enough, soft face, kind eyes. Strong. If she didn't have Bebe, he'd be an ideal candidate and perhaps she'd go after him herself. Not sure how he swung, though. "You're pretty," Craig said, his voice stating a fact and indicating nothing else. Wendy figured it was true. She was no Bebe, but she was confident in herself enough to know she wasn't a hag. Her girlfriend was the token leggy blonde, a busty bombshell while Wendy considered herself more of the girl next door type. Craig's comment did give her a little sense of pride, though. "Thanks, Craig," she smiled. It wasn't like he said things like that often, and even though she knew a man's opinion on her appearance should mean nothing, it still made her feel a little good that their angry little gay Craig said she was pretty.

Their heads snapped back to the ocean at a scream, Wendy's heart instantly dropping at the sound. But she was relieved to see it wasn't one of distress, but of glee. Bebe held up a fairly large sized fish, bouncing about, breasts moving with her. "I got one!" Bebe screamed, jiggling before she flung herself at Cartman for a hug, his face squished between her boobs. Eric seemed to be in heaven, holding out his shirt bag for her once she pulled away, and Bebe dropped the fish in after struggling to remove her earring from it. Even from here, Wendy could see the look of disgust on her face as she touched it.

The day was a productive one. The hunger and thirst had motivated everyone to work together, not strong enough to keep them from doing anything at all. Kyle, Ike, Firkle and Filmore returned with the jug of water filled, along with a few bottles that had been in people's bags and Bebe's purse. They'd also come with several green coconuts, and more palm leaves. Kyle had figured they could use them, and it was no trouble to bring them back. As for the gathering crew, Stan, Kenny and Butters came back to camp with two shirt-bags filled with coconuts and fruits, and Butters also carried a handful of bird eggs. And in one of the sacks, the bird they must have belonged too.

"Butters bludgeoned it with a rock," Kenny explained, Stan's face void of colour. Butters was proud of himself, but Kyle couldn't help but notice the look on Stan's face. He'd toyed with the idea of being a vegetarian when they were in school, and Kyle wondered if he was still on that diet. Stan had always been sensitive when it came to animal welfare, though. Watching someone bash a bird in with a rock wasn't Stan's idea of a good time, Kyle knew that. Even he was a bit disturbed at the idea, but it was food. A bit of meat, for everyone. Kyle gave Stan a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder when Butters pulled it out by the legs, proudly showing off his kill. Stan looked as if he wanted to cry, and it made Kyle's heart hurt for him and the poor gull.

Shortly after their return, Bebe and Cartman came up from the water, Eric's shirt moving on its own, and they both held it open to show the group. "Look what we got!" Bebe exclaimed, and they all peered into the First Officer's shirt. Several fish, and a plethora of shell fish. There were a few crabs and snails climbing up the sides of it. "How're we gonna gut them, though?" Kenny asked, and Ike appeared beside him, offering up what looked like a box cutter. Kenny stared down at the young man, and all of them looked a little perplexed.

"Why do you have that?" Kenny asked, but took it from him all the same. Ike's eyes shifted to Firkle, occupying himself by the fire. Everyone seemed to get it, and spoke of it no more. They all offered their thanks, and went to the fire to sort their spoils.

"We won't be able to eat all of this at once," Bebe said, looking at it all. "We should net some of the fish and keep it in the water to keep them alive." Taking Wendy's hand and some of the still flopping fish, she went to the waters edge, plopping the bag in to give the fish another breath of life. Kyle couldn't help but agree. They had the bird, two fish, a bunch of shell fish. There was the fruit as well as the coconuts that they'd been cracking open on a sharp rock propped up under the root of a tree. Looking around, Kyle wondered just who'd do the dirty work for all of this. The muscles wouldn't be hard. They could pry them open and eat them straight, really. But the bird and the fish needed to be plucked and gutted. "Who wants to do these?" Kyle asked, and no one said anything. "Okay, well someone has to help me, because I'm not doing all the work on my own," he snapped, the idea of food being so close yet far away starting to aggravate him.

"I'll help," Eric said, reaching over to pick up the bird before starting to yank the feathers out. It was a violent act, and beside him, Kyle heard Stan gag. "S'cuse me," he muttered, before darting to the edge of the forest to throw up in a bush. Taking the box cutter and the fish, Kyle motioned for Cartman to follow him to the waters edge, several feet away from Bebe. "Still sensitive about that stuff, I guess," Kyle said, picking a spot with a flat rock to be their cutting board. The first officer nodded, a small chuckle. "He's vegan. What a little pussy. He's gonna starve to death if he doesn't get over it." Kyle agreed. About the starving to death bit, not that Stan was a pussy. He glared at Eric, though, not going to say so.

Taking a rock, Kyle smacked it against the one they were using to break it into a sharp angle. The piece that broke off flung forward, hitting Cartman between the eyes. He let out a loud curse, smacking a splash of water at Kyle. The redhead couldn't help but laugh, the red mark already forming on Eric's forehead. He dropped the fist to the rock, covering his mouth with his hands as he tried to hide his giggles. "I'm sorry," he said, not really meaning it. Eric glared at him, and Kyle tried to bite back the smile on his mouth as he resumed the task of descaling the fish. "Fuck you, Jew boy," he said, tossing a handful of feathers at Kyle. Only it didn't work, blowing back into Cartman's face and sticking to wherever there was water. He rinsed his hands off in the ocean, then wiped at his face to remove them.

He missed one, and Kyle pointed it out. Cartman still didn't get it. "Stop, stop," Kyle laughed, leaning forward to pluck it off the corner of his mouth. His hand lingered much longer than it should have, both of them staring at each other. Only when Kyle realized it was much longer than a couple seconds did he yank his hand back. "Sorry," he muttered, focusing his energy on scraping at the fish. He absolutely did not need to be looking at Stan's first officer as anything but that, his first officer. Besides, he was a dick. He used slurs freely, oogled Bebe like she was some piece of meat. He seemed like a fuckhead. Kyle glanced up, looking at Cartman through his lashes to see what he was doing. He'd removed most of the feathers, plucking off the last few. He was attractive, Kyle couldn't help but think. A strong jaw, light brown hair, brown eyes. No, not quite brown. Kyle'd say they were more of a hazel. It was interesting, Kyle thought. Eric was the only brunet on the island. How odd was that? Kyle was the only redhead, but that was to be expected almost everywhere. Brown was common, but apparently here, Eric Cartman wasn't.

Being an asshole aside, Kyle figured there wasn't much of a harm in looking at him. If Eric could drool over Bebe, why couldn't he get a bit of enjoyment at finding Eric Cartman attractive?

"Pass me that, would you?" Eric asked, and brought Kyle from his thoughts. He handed over the box cutter, watching as Eric slapped the bird onto the rock, and slit straight up the belly of the bird. Kyle winced, watching as Eric just... stuck his hands in. "Ugh," he said, watching as Eric ripped the guts out. "Bebe!" he called out, holding up a bloody hand. "Got you some bait!" He sat it down on the rock, fingers scraping out any of the innards he left behind before dunking it in the water. Eric washed out blood, pulling out a fairly clean and somewhat appetizing looking bird. While Kyle was thoroughly grossed out, he was also rather impressed. "You seemed a bit too good at that," he commented, and Eric smiled. Kyle cursed him for doing so. He didn't need more encouragement. "I used to hunt with one of my moms old boyfriends a when I was in my teens," he said, picking up one of Kyle's descaled fish, and scooting over to sit beside him. "Watch," he said, washing the fish of any scales in the water before slicing it from the back of the head down to the top of the tail. He handed Kyle the blade for him to do the same, and Kyle did so, watching next as Eric used the scaling rock to peel up the skin and pull it off.

"This is disgusting," Kyle said, following Cartman's movements. The other man just laughed. "Yeah, I know. But food is food." Kyle was gonna make a jab about Eric seemingly loving food, but he kept his mouth shut, given that Cartman reached over to grab the box cutter as Kyle peeled the skin off his fish. He wasn't keen on getting stabbed, and probably eaten or something. Eric had gotten both of his sides done, washing his fish again as Kyle did the same to the other side of his own. "Alright," he said when he was finished. "What next?"

Cartman slit the fish in a fluid motion, from head to anus and passed the blade over. "It's pretty easy. Just reach in and grab the entrails," he said, undaunted by touching it with his bare hands. Kyle sympathized with Stan, really not wanting to do this part himself. But Eric was watching him, and Kyle felt challenged. Swallowing, he slit through the fish, dropping the cutter to the rock before going in. It was so gross. Kyle could feel himself begin to gag, but he pushed forward. He wasn't going to be a weak bitch, not in front of Eric Cartman. He did this so smoothly. Kyle was going to do the same if it killed him. He dropped the intestines and other nasty things to the rock. Kyle quickly washed his hands of the fish of any remains, and instantly felt better. And proud of himself. Kyle held it up, pleased with himself. They had three more left to go, but it was a start.


	8. METAR

By the late afternoon, spirits were raised once more. They'd fed and watered themselves. Craig, with the help of Bebe, Kenny and Kyle, had installed the shelter he'd built into the raft. Some people took a nap under it. Others enjoyed a swim in the ocean. Butters had taken to building an elaborate sandcastle. Ike had let several people crowd around his phone in the raft to start watching Orange is the New Black. It was that, and Jessica Jones on Firkle's phone that they had. Aside from the music on their phone, it was the only source of entertainment they had. Ike initially had wanted to not share Firkle's solar charger, and their phones. But what was the harm, honestly? Not everyone had been luck to have their phones on them. The only ones were Ike, Firkle, Bebe, and Craig. They'd had them in their pockets or bags, and everyone else's were now at the bottom of the ocean, forever lost due to water damage.

Overall, everyone was feeling good. Even Tweek was beginning to reach a level of calmness. There wasn't much he was able to stress about, all things considered. They were limited in their stresses, here. It was a small blessing. Of course, there were things such as starvation. Death. Sickness. Injuries. What their families were doing. Would they be here forever? Would they ever be rescued? Would they make it out with everyone alive? Tweek had no idea! None of them did...

But right now? Everyone was feeling good. The sun was shining. Several of them were already rocking an amazing tan. They included Kenny and Bebe, hair golden and skin bronzed and glowing like a twin set of Greek Gods and Goddesses. They had spent the afternoon hanging around one another in the ocean, enjoying themselves and making the most of their scenario. Everyone couldn't help but stare periodically. With both of them wet and in their underclothes, walking up the sand as if they were filmed in slow motion for a movie. "I'm blessed," Wendy had said, Bebe's sunglasses over her eyes as she lounged on a couple of palms in the sun. Stan sat beside her, eyes focused on Kenny. "We all are," he said. And it was true. A little eye candy never hurt anyone, and neither Kenny nor Bebe cared about everyone watching them. Stan didn't know Bebe well, but he knew Kenny. And Kenny loved this. "You'd think they're related," Stan continued, head cocking slightly as he looked at the two of them. They were about the same height. Both slender in build, both toned and... perfect. Even Kenny's ass was as round and perky as Bebe's. The thing that set them apart were Bebe's brown eyes, opposed to Kenny's blue ones.

"Oh, shit, watch this," Wendy said, smacking Stan gently on his knee. Kenny had said something to Bebe that resulted in her tossing her head back in laughter, before hopping back into a defensive stance. She brought out her two arms, gesturing to Kenny with her index and middle fingers on both hands. They watched as Kenny did the same, crouching, the two of them circling each other. "They're gonna fight, holy shit!" Stan called, and immediately everyone else close by turned to watch. "Go easy on him, babe!" Wendy called out, and Bebe cupped her hands into a heart. Her eyes didn't move from Kenny, but they could all see the look on her face. Like a cat, ready to pounce on a rat. "Kick her ass, Kenny, she's just a chick!" Stan called out. But he wasn't as smart as Bebe, turning his head to give Stan a cocky nod. There was a collective groan from the group as Bebe charged forward, arms around Kenny's middle as she tackled him to the sound and sat upon him.

"Cheap shot!" Cartman yelled out, watching as they both stood up. In the sand, Eric marked a small T chart. Point for Bebe.

Wendy turned to Stan, explaining what everyone else already knew from knowing Bebe. "She works out a lot. She runs a fitness and beauty vlog. She may be beautiful but she's a stone cold killer. Kicked my ass once before we started dating." Unfair fight, Wendy always said. Bebe was much taller than she was. Five ten, as opposed to Wendy's five one. In the raft, Ike had gone through Bebe's bag and picked out the Bluetooth speaker. A never ending bag of supplies. He'd turned it on, Eye of the Tiger blaring through the little speaker. "She's gonna win," Wendy said, and Stan laughed. "Nah, Kenny can hold his own." What Stan and Cartman knew that the others didn't was Kenny's ability to actually die, and wake up the next morning better than ever.

They all watched, Bebe moving to kick Kenny in the side. They heard the top of her foot smack into his side, and Stan winced. It was a strong kick, and Bebe made move for another one. But Kenny was learning, grabber her leg and twisted so that Bebe was facing away from him, hopping on one foot. He gave a hefty shove, and down she went, face first into the sand. Cartman marked a point for Kenny, and they all watched as Bebe brushed herself off, looking murderous now as she wiped her face free of sand. All bets were off, and the glint in their eyes meant they weren't going to stop until one of them couldn't move any longer.

And boy, what a fight. They'd picked sides by the end of it. There were obvious ones, of course. Stan sided with Kenny, Wendy with Bebe. But Cartman had swapped teams as Bebe landed several good punched to Kenny's jaw. But then there was Ike and Filmore, whooping as Kenny kicked his foot flat into Bebe's abdomen, sending her to her ass. Then there was Kyle, yelling at the both of them to stop before they really hurt themselves. Everyone ignored him, the resident buzzkill. Tweek was on his side, apparently. Twitching as he called out for them once they saw one of Kenny's teeth go flying into the ocean as Bebe's foot hit against it. Butters was perhaps the most violent, calling for blood. And Stan saw what Craig had meant by calling him nuts. Such a sweet guy, but he had absolutely no chill.

The fight didn't stop for a good while, only ending when Bebe had given Kenny several more strong kicks and punches to Kenny's head. He laid motionless on the sand, and Bebe gave him a few small kicks to the side to get him up. Her hands were bloody, body bruised. But Kenny fared worse. Blood from his nose and mouth and one of his ears. But he didn't ever move. After a few minutes, Bebe crouched down beside him and smacked at his cheeks. "Kenny?" Bebe asked, voice soft and full of concern. "Kenny?!" Kenny never answered. She pressed two fingers against his neck, and felt no pulse before she started screaming.

Wendy and Kyle rushed down to her, and Bebe scrambled backwards on the sand, looking towards Kenny and then at Wendy. She screamed bloody murder. "I killed him! I killed him!" Kyle was next to Kenny, mouth against his, hands on his chest to pump air into his lungs. Anything to get him moving again. Stan and Cartman shared a look, wondering which of them would stop the panic that was arising. Cartman looked amused by this, watching as Wendy held Bebe's face in her hands tightly to yell at her to stop screaming and calm down. Stan went down, seeing the three of them shaking with panic. Behind him, Stan turned to see Craig lifting Tweek into the raft to shield him from the view.

"Stop!" Stan yelled, voice bellowing and everyone went quiet. "He's fine!" Bebe looked mortified, face streaming with tears. "Fine!? He's not fine!" Stan resisted the urge, and began to explain. "You killed Kenny-" he was cut off by Kyle, whose head whipped around to stare at him, angry. "You bastard! Can't you see she's upse-" Stan held up a hand to silence him. "You killed Kenny, but he'll be fine. He'll be back tomorrow." They looked at him like he was nuts, and Stan spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "Trust me! He dies all the time. Hell, two months ago we were in Saint Petersburg, and he went to open the hold with his bare hands and froze to it. We didn't notice and took off with him stuck there. He's been sucked into jet engines, run over, fallen from the plane. Every time he comes back."

"Trust me," Stan said, looking at all of them. Cartman pushed himself up, nodding in agreement to the others at the camp. "It's true. Scared Stan shitless the first time. He cried like a little bitch." Stan glared at him, feeling the need to justify himself. "Only because you didn't tell me he'd be fine! You let me think he died on my watch!"

That night, no one slept peacefully. Except for Stan and Cartman. The others tossed and turned, with the exception of the two by the fire. Craig had opted to stay awake again, Firkle joining him by the fire. "You should stop stealing my smokes, man," Firkle said, voice flat as he handed one over to the older boy all the same. Craig lit up, passing the lighter to Firkle before pushing himself up. "Come on," he said. Craig's voice didn't have any command to it, but Firkle followed all the same. The moon was nearing full, probably another couple of nights. Together, they headed through the forest, away from any of the others. It wasn't until Craig felt they were well out of ear shot that he spoke. "How's my sister? You know?" Firkle and her had been in the same grade. Almost friends, if Craig remembered right. Not close, but enough where Firkle had been round to their house for a few projects here and there. They'd gotten on fine, two young people who didn't give a shit. Craig had left home at seventeen, sick of his home life and he hadn't spoken to his parents since. His sister had done nothing wrong, but it had been a long time since he'd seen her.

"Last I talked to her, she was transferring to NYU, in September. She mentioned it on Facebook," Firkle said, and Craig felt a small swell of pride. His baby sister went to New York City. He missed her, but contact with her meant contact with their parents and there wasn't a time in his life in which he'd ever be ready to look his father in the face.

"Why'd you leave, anyway? She was pretty mad about it," Firkle asked, flicking his cigarette butt somewhere onto the island floor. Craig still had a few small puffs of his left, but he sucked it back before doing the same. "No way, kid, no tragic backstory for you." Craig could hear the goth kid roll his eyes, even in the dark. He could just sense it. But there was no way he was telling this little twit what his demons were. "I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours?" the young one offered, and Craig just shook his head. "You can tell me yours all you fucking want, I'm not telling you mine. If you're so desperate to talk about yourself, talk to your friends."

"Not happening. They care to much. It's weird." Craig looked at him, eyebrow lifting but Firkle just stared at him. Craig supposed he could understand that. He didn't tell his friends much either. They didn't know, and Craig didn't need to be pitied or coddled. He wasn't made of glass, and his friends wore their hearts on their sleeves and the last thing he wanted was for them to walk on eggshells around him. He'd dealt with his demons in his own way.

Firkle had gone to bed after Craig had tripped him into the fresh water pond at the heart of the island. Maybe it was mean. But the kid was prying to much and getting on his nerves, and he'd been so close to the edge. Craig played it off like Firkle had just tripped over a stick of something, that Craig was completely innocent. Both of them knew he wasn't, but the little goth kid didn't comment on it, just wiped his wet hair from his face and glared at him.

Craig stayed up again, watching the fire, tossing more wood as needed through the night. Occasionally he checked up on the group of them in the raft, and Craig unzipped the blue hoodie, tossing it over Tweek's shivering body. The night was damp, and a chill blew in off the ocean. Craig would try and put some sort of wall on the frame in the morning. Especially considering in the far distance, he could see the greyish purple of clouds in the night sky. Whether the wind would brow rain in their direction was something Craig couldn't tell. Stan and Eric probably would be a better judge of weather than any of them, given their livelihoods had depended on knowing it. With everyone asleep, he began to feel the exhaustion really set in from being up multiple nights in a row. But there was no way he'd sleep peacefully in a life raft with a bunch of strangers, Nor was Craig going to keep any of them up with his tossing and turning.

He sat on the edge of it, long arms reaching down to run his fingers through Tweek's knotty hair, helping to soothe him in his sleep. He could feel Tweek relax under his fingers, used to Craig's presence while he slept. Craig would sleep when he was so tired he'd drop and his mind would be dark and peaceful. But until then, Craig had every intention of keeping himself awake. Someone had to watch, anyway.

So he did. Craig sat up, watching as the clouds rolled in as the hours passed. The sun rising illuminated them to a beautiful array of reds, pinks and oranges. He briefly wondered how much of that old saying was true. Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. It reminded him of playing pirates as children, and Craig got lost in his thoughts. Until he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Craig nearly shat himself from shock.

"Kenny, holy fuck!" So Stan and Cartman were right. Or Craig was so fucking tired he was beginning to hallucinate. Not unheard of, he'd stayed awake once for five days in a row before and was plagued by them. Mind, they were never as pleasant as a good looking blonde. More like shadow demons trying to claw at his ankles and drag him down into the underworld, and kitchen appliances coming alive and ripping him and Tweek to shreds in their shitty lite apartment. Kenny greeted him with a bright smile, and then held his arms out to show off. "Miss me?" he asked, all grins.

Craig's face fell flat. "No." Because quite honestly? No. He didn't know Kenny. Kenny was a stranger. Was pretty shitty Bebe had killed him, but Craig was more concerned about Bebe going insane and killing everyone once she got a taste of blood. Kenny held a hand to his chest. "I'm hurt, Craig. Wounded, even." He looked slightly offended, but the amusement in his eyes was what made Craig sigh and roll his. "Well, you're fine now, what's it matter? Bebe!" Craig yelled, and the blonde girl shot up, hair wild and eyes full of terror at being abruptly awoken.

"What?! What's wrong?" She called out, loud enough to start to make everyone start to wake with her. Craig just grinned at her, slightly amused by her morning fear. It was funny now, since Kenny was fine. "Look, you're not a brutal murderer after all. Shame." Bebe rubbed at her eyes, seeing Kenny in the light of the sunrise. She shot out of the raft, throwing her arms around Kenny and held tight as she burst into tears again. Girls were so weird. Kenny rubbed at her back as Bebe sputtered wet apologies, the blonde boy just happy to have her pressed against him.

Craig stopped caring when Tweek was properly awake, and slid into the raft to cup his cheeks in his hands. "It's just Bebe, Kenny's back." Tweek's face relaxed, eyes flicking over to confirm it himself. "G...good." Tweek muttered, voice heavy with sleep. Craig let him go, reaching down to pull up the blue hoodie and slide it on to Tweek. "It's going to rain today," Craig said, nodding to the clouds. "Wanna help me get some palms, build a wall or two?" Tweek nodded, leaning forward into Craig's chest and the taller man wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Tweek's head. "You... you smell like shit, dude." Tweek said, and Craig huffed. "You're not so fresh yourself, man," he countered, letting a finger get caught in a knot and tugged gently for emphasis. "I'll see if I can swipe Bebe's soap and we can sneak off for a bath." Craig wasn't stripping down in front of anyone but Tweek, not even for a wash. He wouldn't mind washing his clothes, as well. But that required being nude for a while, and like fuck he was letting everyone see his pasty white ass and scarred thighs. "I... I wish... Oh god, if only I brought my bag!" Tweek cried out, and Craig just smushed him harder against his chest to help muffle his voice from the others. "I had a change! A change of clothes. I wouldn't stink. Oh Jesus. And toiletries! But Kenny, the pressure to leave! I forgot!"

Craig held the back of his head, shaking his own. "It's fine, Tweek, I didn't get anything either. Most of us didn't. No one thought they had any time to grab their bags from the overhead." There would have been time, though. The plane had floated for a while before it finally filled with too much water and sank. But it allowed Kenny enough time to go and grab the pilots and haul them out and roll them into the raft. Kenny had been far from gentle, more focused on getting them out than getting them out nicely. Craig regretted not pulling himself in and doing what Tweek was panicking about. He had a few changes of clothes, a swim suit, and some toiletries in his carry on too. Not much they could do about it, though. "Come on, get off your ass. Time to work." It was day three, and Butters had already climbed out to go score it into the large palm that hung over the fire pit of their camp.

Craig pushed Tweek off his lap, hand on his butt to push him up and out of the raft. Craig threw his arm around Tweek's shoulders, feeling rather good about everything right now. Craig chalked it up to one of the stages of exhaustion. The others were making their way to the fire, or passing around one of the bottles of water for a drink. Stan, Kyle, Cartman and Kenny stood in a little line, discussing the weather. It was a little surreal, seeing them there in their little line, looking so different. Kyle fit with them.

"I give it four hours, tops," Stan said, arm up as he directed the presumed path of the clouds, with the wind. "The wind's maybe gusting to ten knots, right now. It might gust up past twenty five, if we're getting a storm." Stan brought his arm down, looking at his watch. "Which I think we are, pressure's at twenty niner niner inches of mercury right now." Craig and Tweek moved closer, leaning in with the others as they all stared down at Stan's watch. A handy little thing. Stan looked a bit proud of everyone looking at it. "It's an alti-baro watch. Comes in handy." If it was gonna help predict the weather, then it was a rather precious thing to have with them.

"Tweek and I are gonna go gather some palms, build up some walls and give us a place to escape from the rain. It might do us some good to cook some stuff up, we probably won't have a fire tonight if the rain lasts." Craig said, and Kyle nodded in agreement. "We should move some wood under the shelter as well, or wrap the stack in palms. We should avoid wet wood-" Kyle was cut off by Eric snickering, and Kyle punched him in the injured shoulder with a glare before he continued. "Wet wood if we can help it."

By the time the rain rolled in, Craig had three decent walls built up. The only one he hadn't gotten to was the face closes to the interior of the island, but the trees should help keep any wind and rain blowing that way at bay. They weren't the sturdiest things, and Craig hoped the winds weren't so high that they'd be destroyed. They could do a bit more enforcing on the inside while it rained.

The others had split up again, Bebe, Butters and Kenny on water duty, while Eric and Kyle took to gathering some more sea food. They'd gut and cleaned several, frying it on a hot, flat rock in the coals of the fire. Wendy and Stan took up cracking open coconuts, dumping their juice into a couple of the small water bottles before they cut out the meat and wrapped it in leaves to keep it from getting contaminated by sand. Wherever Firkle and his friends went, Craig didn't know nor care. They'd said something about laundry, taking a shirt-sack full of peoples clothes and the hand soap from Bebe's bag and went off somewhere on the island. Craig had given them his shirt and sweater, along with all of Tweek's clothes minus his underpants.

It was the early afternoon when the rain started, falling slowly at first before suddenly dropping on them like a sheet. Everyone scrambled into the raft, thanking Craig, Tweek and Wendy for the work they'd put into it.

"You need to sleep, dude," Kenny said, sitting beside him and offering two coconut halves. They were cleaned out, one filled with water, the other with a mix of cooked fish, fruit and coconut meat. "Thanks," Craig said, picking out a fillet of fish and popped it into his mouth. For coming from the ocean, the fish was fairly bland. It could do with some salt. Pepper. Lemon juice. But it was food, and Craig was hungry. Hell, Craig was hungry, sore, tired...

He got halfway through his bowl before he felt too tired and full to finish. It was a small handful of food, and Craig wondered if it was possible to be too tired to eat. Not that Craig ever ate much to begin with. Besides, Tweek was finished his. Craig reached over, plucking the coconut out of Tweek's hand and replaced it with his own. It wasn't often that Tweek looked angry, but he gave Craig a glare. "You... you need to eat! You'll... you'll become a skeleton!"

"Yeah, man, food may be limited but you should eat what you can," Kenny agreed. "You're a tall dude, you should be eating more than most of us. Cartman can stand to lose a few pounds-" Kenny was cut off by Cartman yelling out that he wasn't fat, but Kenny ignored him as if it was a common tease between them. "But you're stick thin as it is."

Craig groaned, running a hand through his hair and messing it up further. "I'm fine. I'm just not feeling well. Get off my back, fuck." Craig regretted saying so, watching as Tweek's face contorted into worry. "Oh no, you're sick!" He cried out, instantly thinking that Craig was going to keel over and die at any moment or something. "Holy fuck," Craig whined, wanting to smash his head on the branch walls until he passed out.

"Listen, both of you, I ate as much as I felt like and I'm not going to gorge myself on food just to make you guys feel better." Craig snapped, wanting to wrap his hands around Kenny's throat to wipe the look of concern off his face. "I'm gonna try and take a nap," he said a bit calmer, hand reaching over to wrap around Tweek's wrist as an anchor for himself "Save it and I'll eat it then, alright?" Tweek nodded, as did Kenny, both of them keeping their eyes on him.

With a sigh, Craig leaned back on the raft wall and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. With the sound of the wind and rain, it didn't take long for him to drift to sleep, sitting up right and clinging to Tweek's wrist to keep him grounded to reality.


	9. Approach

It wasn't until the following morning that the sun broke through the rain. By then, everyone had gone slightly stir crazy and stiff. Bebe had insisted they play a few games. Some to get to know each other, others like Never Have I Ever or Two Truths and a Lie. Craig had no desire to play any of them, simply staring up to the top of the shelter and flipping them all off when he was asked something. During the TvTropes game Bebe had come up with, Ike and Filmore had dissolved into a fit of laughter when Firkle said that Craig's was 'Tsundere.' No one but them and Kenny had seemed to get it. Stan got stuck with Loveable Jock. Bebe was either Dumb Blonde or Attention Wore. Stan couldn't help but laugh when Kyle and Eric had gotten into it, Eric declaring that Kyle was the Alpha Bitch, and Kyle countering that Eric was the Big Bad Wannabe. That lead to a screaming match of insults and slurs thrown at each other. And when it came down to Kyle holding Eric in a headlock while his first officer screamed 'uncle' like a bitch, they all knew the rain needed to be stopped lest they have another murder on their hands. Why they continued to sit together, Stan didn't know.

Finally, as the afternoon creeped closer, the sun seemed to have enough power and heat to dissipate the clouds, offering them a break from the rain. Everyone shot out of the raft, desperate to use the bathroom or stretch their limbs properly. The guys had an easy go of it, they could just piss out the raft, despite Bebe and Wendy yelling at them about how disgusting it was. They'd also all seen Butter's ass a couple times, too, since the guy apparently needed to remove everything to pee. In the distance, Stan could hear Bebe and Wendy yelling at someone, demanding privacy while they did their business. The person - Eric, Stan could tell - was arguing that he needed to go too and they couldn't bogart the whole damn toilet area because they were bitches and wouldn't piss outside in the open. Stan winced at hearing him scream again, come stumbling out of the trees with a bright red hand print on his cheek. Stan smirked, trying to his laugh. "You gonna get your ass kicked by everyone or what?" Stan asked, and Eric shoved him by the shoulder. "They're probably on their periods or something," Eric huffed. "Nasty creatures, women. Both in mind and body."

Stan couldn't hold in his laugh now, exasperated and amused. "Yeah, okay, Cartman. Be thankful we have some of the fairer sex with us. Might have turned into a Lord of the Flies scenario without them." Cartman groaned, sitting down on a rock and prodding at the wet coals and ash in their fire pit. Stan took a spot beside him, leaning against his first officer. "Think they're looking for us?" Cartman asked, and Stan ran a hand through his hair to try and detangle some of the knots. "They'd better be. Fuck. I wanna go home, man. I'd kill a man for a cup of coffee or a beer." Stan figured he deserved it after all this shit. At least the sun was out, though. It gave them all a second life. "I'm losing weight, I'm so hungry," Cartman whined, throwing the stick away in a bit of a tantrum. Four days of minimal food would do that to a guy. "Everyone is, you're not special," Stan countered, shrugging at the nasty glare Eric sent him. "There's some coconuts and mango things if you're hungry, dude. We've got them in abundance."

"I don't want coconuts and fruit, I want a fucking bag of cheesy poofs," Cartman snapped, looking like he was the most hard done by creature in the world.

Stan mouthed 'oh my god' to himself, rolling his eyes. He pushed himself up with a small grunt, looking down at his first officer. "I'm gonna go take a shit and have a wash, I can't listen to your sob story about junk food." Cartman flipped him off, and Stan responded with a cheerful little waggle of his fingers as he walked backwards into the trees, before turning it into an obscene gesture himself.

After doing his business, Stan opted instead to take a dunk in the fresh water pool. Anything to get the sticky feeling of humidity and sweat off his skin. Wash away some of the sand. The interior of the island was so covered in various foliage that there wasn't much sand to collect on clothes or skin and it sounded like the best option to give his clothes and body a rinse. When he got there, though, a familiar head of red curls was crouched by the edge. "Hey, man," Stan said, not wanting to spook Kyle. He did anyway, apparently, given how Kyle jumped a little in his skin before turning to see him. Kyle visibly relaxed, turning back to the jug of water he was filling. Stan came closer, stripping out of his shirt and undoing his pants buckle.

Kyle turned, and stared at him. "Dude, no offense, but..." Stan, for the second time, mouthed 'oh my god' to himself as he slipped the leather from the loops. "I'm going for a swim, dude. Not coming on to you. Give me some credit, I've got more game than just whipping it out in front of you." Stan was slightly offended. Mostly amused, but still a little offended. Kyle laughed, looking awkward, and turned away as Stan pushed down his trousers and underpants in one go. They were stuck here for who knew how long, and Stan wasn't about to be shy in front of a guy who'd seen him naked hundreds of times since they were children. He was so desperate for a clean, he'd be in the buff in front of the ladies even, sensibilities be damned. Stan jumped in, and under the water he heard Kyle let out a string of curses at being splashed. The action hurt his ribs, but was so fucking worth it when Stan popped up to the surface and looked at Kyle's soggy self.

"You're still an asshole, I see," Kyle said, reaching forward to splash Stan. "And shameless, apparently."

Sticking his his tongue out, Stan threaded the water with his legs. "And you're still a prude." Stan's grin hurt, watching as Kyle crossed his arms across his chest and looked thoroughly offended. "I am not a prude!" The bright red on Kyle's cheeks said otherwise. Or perhaps he was just sunburned. Stan hoped for the former, honestly. It had always been amusing to get a rise out of Kyle in the past. Tilting his head down, Stan grabbed a mouthful of water and spat it in a thin stream at Kyle's face.

The redhead wiped the water away, glaring at Stan. But Stan could see there was no real malice in the look. "I hope you get a parasite," Kyle said.

"That'd rude," Stan pouted, swimming to the edge and grabbing Kyle by the front of his shirt, pulling him forward into the water. "Dude!" Kyle yelled, smacking at the water and sending a spray of it at Stan once he resurfaced. "Asshole." Kyle struggled for a moment, trying to worm his way out of his wet shirt and jeans before he tossed them on the embankment in a soggy pile. Kyle didn't go completely nude, opting to stay in his boxers.

"You need a wash, man, you stink." Stan laughed, not meaning it in the slightest. Truth be told, he couldn't smell anyone really. They'd all sat in the same clothes, sweaty and dirty, that Stan didn't much notice anyone. They'd all periodically dunked themselves in the ocean or washed their clothes out in the water and hung them to dry. There was no soap, aside from the bit Bebe had but Ike and his friends used it for washing clothes instead of bodies. "Yeah, well. You need a shave," Kyle counters, and Stan compared their reflections in the water. His beard was starting to grow in fairly thick in the last four days. Meanwhile, Kyle hadn't next to nothing. Compared to his own reflection, Stan couldn't help but think how young Kyle looked. "At least I can grow one." The pilot laughed, feeling Kyle kick him under the water.

"Soft spot?" Stan asked, and Kyle glared at him. "Dude, it's cool. Not your fault you're still a late bloomer. I mean, twenty eight is really late, but... Okay! Okay! I give!" Stan cried out, laughing as Kyle swam over to pinch him in the arm as punishment for his teasing. "Such a violent little thing, still? Haven't changed a lick, have you, Ky?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Neither have you, I'm sure. Still obsessed with flying and we all saw you get emotional over that Booby bird Butters killed." Stan felt his stomach churn at the memory of it. Eric had already been giving him shit for refusing to eat the fish. "In my defense," Stan pointed out, swimming over to a shallow rock to sit on. "I haven't eaten meat in years. It's a bit unnerving to just watch Butters straight up slaughter something. Let alone eat it."

Kyle dipped under the surface of the water, and Stan watched him do a few little laps before coming to join Stan on his rock. Kyle's skin was a vibrant red, speckled by freckles from the sun. He'd begun peeling, too, and Stan felt a great sympathy for him. Stan was doing alright, the burn he got the initial days fading into a tan with minimal pain. "How bad does that hurt?" Stan asked, and Kyle looked down at his shoulders, peeling off a large piece of skin. "Pretty bad, to be honest. The water feels nice on it. The ocean stung like a bitch the other day." Their little watering hole was cool with the earlier rain, filled to nearly the brim. It felt fantastic on Stan's skin, and he could only imagine how soothing it was on Kyle's. "What about you?" Kyle asked, nodding down at Stan's bruised chest.

"Better, I guess. Still sore as shit, but I'm doing alright." Stan said, not sopping Kyle from turning and pressing his hands against Stan's wet chest. He winced, feeling as Kyle's fingers prodded along and between ribs. Stan figured he was feeling for anything abnormal. Handy, having an almost doctor on board. And aside from the pain and tenderness, it felt... nice. It had been a while since he'd had someone touch him. Kyle's hands had stopped moving, resting flat on his chest and side as he looked up at Stan. Stan stared down at him, both of them quiet for a moment.

Stan brought a hand up to Kyle's face, pushing a wet curl out of his eyes before leaning forward. Kyle met him the rest of the way, pressing their lips together into a small kiss. Stan wanted to think that maybe this crash was meant to bring them together. That the age old saying of if it was meant to happen, it would. That he'd feel passion and sparks or ...anything.

But he didn't. And judging by the feeling of Kyle trying not to laugh into his mouth, Stan guessed that his old flame didn't as well. Stan pulled away slightly, only to press their foreheads together and hold the back of Kyle's head with his hands. Kyle' she green eyes were alight with amusement, and Stan couldn't help but chuckle along with him. "Nothing?" Stan asked, and Kyle shook his head a little. "Not like that, man. Sorry." Stan smiled, holding their heads together. "Maybe there never was," Stan said, and Kyle looked slightly confused. "Maybe that's why we fought all the time. We weren't meant to be in love-" Kyle looked slightly hurt at that, and Stan felt the need to elaborate further. "No, no. I mean, I loved you, man. But like, maybe we weren't _in_ love, you know?" Kyle seemed to get it, and Stan felt him nod in understanding.

"Seems right..." Kyle stayed quiet for a moment, and Stan pulled back a little to rest his chin atop of the wet red curls. "I missed you," Stan whispered. "You were my best friend." Kyle slide closer on the rock, wrapping his arms around Stan's torso, gentle to not hurt him. "I missed you too," Kyle mumbled. "It sucked, so much. We were so stupid." Despite not feeling anything romantic during their short kiss, Stan felt something all the same. He felt a little more complete, felt like Kyle and he were friends again. They had a decade of catching up to do, and maybe the island was pushing them at a rapid pace because they needed each other and everyone else. But Stan felt like, even if he lost his license and his job, he might just have his greatest friend back.

"I'm sorry." Stan spoke quietly, continuing his hug. "For the stupid shit I said. Not much I can do to make it better, but I'm sorry."

"Me too," Kyle replied, and Stan pulled back after a couple moments and popped a brow. "What?" Kyle asked.

"Say it," Stan said.

"Say what?"

"You're sorry."

"I just did?" Kyle's voice was confused, but Stan wasn't being fooled by his innocent game. He wasn't getting out of his own apology this way. "No, you didn't. You just said 'me too'. That's not 'I'm Sorry, Stan. I was a horrible person who didn't believe in your dreams and I will make it up to you by massaging your shoulders and feet.'"

Kyle wasn't amused. "I'm literally not saying that ever."

Stan poked him in the chest. "Say it."

"No!"

"Say it or I'll tell Eric you've got a crush on him and we can all listen to him cry about a Jew being in love with him," Stan teased, his mouth dropping in realization at the end of it as Kyle's face went a brilliant shade. "Oh my god you do! You think he's hot!" Perhaps it was childish, but Stan couldn't help put point accusingly at him before singing. "Kyle and Eric sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-GAH!" Kyle had punched him square in the chest, desperate to defend himself. "He's an antisemetic twat. Just because he's good looking doesn't mean I _like_ him."

Stan was going to rag on him so hard.


	10. According to All Known Laws of Aviation

If Eric had to hear someone comment on his weight loss one more time, he was going to snap. Over the course of the two weeks they'd been on this island, Cartman had dropped a fair amount of weight. The lack of junk food, the need to stay active to not go insane, the limited source of food... It all contributed to it. Eric wasn't the only one who was losing weight, of course. Everyone was to some degree. But the change was most noticeable in him. More to lose.

What was infuriating were the offhanded comments that he somehow was looking better now than he had before.

Mostly they came from Stan and Kenny, who always ragged on him for being fat in the first place. Bebe also spoke up about it, smacking his ass and making flirty comments. It was infuriating. He was starving, literally, yet somehow he was praised for it because it was more attractive? Call Eric salty, but he was attractive _before_ he lost weight. He did his best to bite his tongue at it, but he wanted a bag of god damned cheesy poofs and he wanted everyone to stop telling him he was essentially more desirable now that he'd lost weight. Eric hadn't wanted to lose weight! It wasn't a choice to 'better' himself. It was because he'd spent two weeks eating next to nothing, sitting in the sand, and building stupid little palm huts with the others or joining in on their group bonding activities.

The small miracle? The God damned Jew. He was the only one who was really honest. No shame in telling Eric he looked like shit, he looked weird, that he didn't look right. Sure, they were insults, and Eric almost always rose to his bait but it was validation that no, Eric's weight loss wasn't some positive thing he should be applauded for. But despite the insults and their fighting, Kyle had the tendency to tip some of his share of food into Eric's coconut. Or stand close beside him while he tipped a small handful of sticky, colourful skittles into his hand without anyone else looking. Eric initially accused Kyle of pitying him, but the redhead had snorted and said he'd never pity Eric's fat ass, he just needed to make sure his main insult was still true.

And that had gone on for the last week or so. With the close proximity and slow days making this whole ordeal feel longer, despite their fighting, Eric had a god damned childish crush on the ginger, sun freckled fuckhead. Stan had been pissing him off about it for the last little while, encouraging him to act on it. Mocking him. Making stupid kissy faces at the two of them when they talked. Kenny was no better, with his lewd comments and drawings in the sand.

Eric was relaxing in the communal hut that was the raft, the others enjoying a sunset swim, or yoga, or whatever faggy shit they were doing together. It wasn't often he got any alone time, considering people always gravitated to anyone who wanted to be left to their own devices. But it was short lived, the palm flap opening and a familiar head of red curls poked its head inside. Eric groaned, putting down the goth kid's copy of Catcher in the Rye. "What do you want, Jew Boy?" Eric asked, sitting up after folding down a corner of the book.

"Come with me, fat ass. You'll like this." Kyle said, rolling his eyes and motioning for Eric to follow. He did so, sliding out the raft and noting that it seemed to be slightly less plump than it had been. Deflating slowly, it seemed. Eric made a mental note to tell someone to check for a hole or something. Either way, if it deflated, the vinyl would act as a floor. His thoughts on it vanished, though, favouring instead to stare down at Kyle's ass in his thinning underwear. The Jew's whole body was covered in freckles now, and Eric could see them on his butt through the thin fabric. They covered him from head to toe, now. Up his thighs, along his back and shoulders. Kyle had been moaning about getting skin cancer because of them, but Eric found himself-oddly enough- enjoying staring at them. Though Eric was curious as to what the slight swelling in his arms was from... "Stop staring at my ass and come on, fuck," Kyle whispered, looking like they were supposed to be sneaking.

"You know no one is around, right?" Eric nodded behind them, following Kyle into the island's jungle. Eric turned to look at them all, most of them down by the beach where they'd lit a fire. Bebe, Ike, and Kenny danced around it in skirts of palms and grass, faces covered in mud as if they were acting out some spiritual ritual. Everyone was going nuts, Eric figured they probably were. In front of him, Kyle shrugged. "Still, I wanna keep this a secret for now."

Eric rolled his eyes, and followed silently behind him. The view was nice, Kyle looking good in the fading sunlight. "Why not ask your new BFF Stan to go on this adventure?" Eric asked when they were stalled, Kyle struggling to pull himself up a rock. Eric came up behind him, grabbing his ass and hoisting him up. Kyle kicked his head on the way up, playing it as an accident but by now, Eric knew better. "You're welcome," Eric huffed, offering up a hand when Kyle was settled so he could help Eric get a grip and yank himself up. "Thanks," the ginger smirked, before continuing. "He wouldn't like it. Would tell me it was unethical or something. He's only just starting to eat a bit of fish. And that's only because I keep telling him he'll die if all he eats is fruit and coconuts."

So whatever Kyle had come across was edible. Now he had Eric's full attention. It had to be good, otherwise Kyle wouldn't have wasted his time to come make this stupid trek again. "It's just up hear, in these rocks," Kyle explained, hopping over a couple of fallen logs covered in creepers. He was growing excited now, darting ahead quickly and Eric had to trot to keep up. Eric was taller, but Kyle's strides were longer. By the time Eric got closer, Kyle had stopped and was gathering up some green foliage, before lighting it on fire. It smoked instantly, and Kyle waved it around and between a large split in a rock.

"Bees, dude?" Eric asked, laughing. Kyle looked incredibly excited when Eric caught on. The brunet waved some smoke away from his face, standing beside Kyle to peer into the crack. The flame from Kyle's quick torch illuminated thousands of smoked bees, stumbling lazily on their honey comb. Eric could spot a small chunk missing, where Kyle must have tried to make a grab at it. "I came back for a lighter. I don't know why I thought they wouldn't be pissed if I tried to just grab some," Kyle explained. "This place is making me stupid. But man, look. I don't know why none of us thought of it sooner. Obviously there had to be bees, right? Otherwise how would there be flowers and fruit and shit. I don't know much about bees, but I do know honey is an amazing anti-bacterial and anti-inflammation agent. And also delicious." Eric held up a hand to signal for Kyle to shut up, relax a minute. He did, but Eric got a glare for it. Eric took the torch, holding it in the crack and filling the space with smoke before he handed it back. Either this would go smoothly, or Eric was about to discover he was allergic to bees, die, and never get a piece of Jewish ass.

The idea of sweet, syrupy honey was worth the risk.

Eric reached in, shoving his fingers in the sticky, waxy comb and grabbing a chunk. On the palm of his hand, he felt the stings instantly as some bees got caught between their comb and his palms, others whizzing out between his fingers and bouncing stupidly off the rock and hive. "Fuck," he hissed, jumping back as he dumped it into his other palm. "I hope I'm not allergic." Kyle stared at him as if he was an idiot. Not an uncommon look from him. "You mean you _don't know if you're allergic to bees?!"_ Eric shook his head, shaking the three dead bees that gave their lives to protect what Eric stole off his hand. It was swelling instantly, but the honey on his hands seemed to help sooth it. "You're a fucking idiot."

"Got some, though. I feel fine, I think I'm good." In his hand, Eric looked down to see the chunk of honey comb he'd pulled off. He hadn't crushed it, which was nice. It looked like the honeycomb sold for ten bucks a pop at the few farmers markets he'd been too. Raising his stung hand to his mouth, Eric licked some off before moaning. "Fuck, this is _almost_ as good as the skittles." There was nothing comparable to artificial fruit flavours and high fructose corn syrup, but this was pretty close. Eric's body was craving sugars, and this was downright heavenly. Kyle laughed, taking a seat against a palm. "I thought your fat ass would like it," he said. Eric sat down beside him, holding his hands out to share. With careful fingers, Kyle broke a part of the honey comb apart and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Now it was Eric's turn to stare at him like he was an idiot. Wax and all, really? Eric was pretty sure you weren't supposed to eat that shit.

"What?" Kyle asked, mouth full and chewing. He grabbed a lead off the ground and spat a wad of spit covered wax into it. "Trust me, it's good that way. Haven't you ever had those wax bottles with the candy syrup in it when you were a kid?"

"No, that's fucking weird and torturous. What kind of candy is made out of fucking wax? Weird Jew candy?" Kyle just scoffed, grabbing another chunk of it and shoving it into Eric's mouth. Eric's first instinct was to spit it out, but one bite into it..? Eric felt like everything he knew was a lie. Each chew pushed more of the honey out of the comb, strangely satisfying and incredibly amazing to taste. Eric felt like he was eating something substantial. Almost. The honey was soon gone, however, leaving the wax balled up in his mouth. Kyle was already devouring another, larger chunk of comb.

Eric spat the wax out onto the leaf, Kyle doing the same and going in for another piece. Eric yanked his hand away. "Calm yourself, greedy Jew. Don't be a stereotype." Kyle punched him in the shoulder, snatching a large chunk all the same. It left Eric with a size that was approximately the same as a Mars bar. Eric had shoved more in his mouth before, and stuffed the entire thing in so Kyle wouldn't be able to get anymore. Cheeks puffed with honey and wax, Kyle glared at him. Around his own mouthful, Eric smirked proudly. Kyle spat out his wad of wax, eyes narrowing as he grabbed hold of Eric's hand and brought it to his mouth. Eric didn't have time to realize what was happening before Kyle had sucked his middle and index finger into his gob. Eric nearly choked. He coughed the wax out, eyes wide as he watched and... felt Kyle lick the honey off his fingers. He looked fucking smug, and Eric figured he must have looked like a damn fool. His brain seemed to turn off, and Eric opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Kyle removed his fingers from his mouth and licked up his palm. Eric let out a rather undignified noise, Kyle making slow work of cleaning his hand free of the sticky substance. For a brief moment, Eric thanked the weight loss for making his pants loose and hiding his arousal. Not that the Jew wasn't smart enough to see it on his face, judging by the satisfied look on his own. Kyle was back to sucking at Eric's fingers, tongue lapping at the honey on his pinky and ring finger. It had been a while since Eric had sex, and Eric's mind was long gone into the gutter now.

When Kyle finished, after what felt like both an eternity and not long enough, Eric stared at him. Specifically, at the glistening plump lips. A few long seconds past, and Eric couldn't hold it back any longer. With both hands, Eric grabbed Kyle's face and yanked him forward. Those lips were his. Hell, the whole damn ginger Jew was his. Eric was calling dibs now.

The kiss was far from graceful or romantic. It was sticky, wet. Bruising. Eric sucked hard at Kyle's lower lip, tasting honey and fruit and sea salt. But the moan the redhead made into his lips was one that Eric had to thank God for. Eric buried a hand in the tight red curls, the other moving to pull Kyle into his lap. For once, Eric was pleased as punch to be on this God-forsaken island. He tugged at Kyle's roots, settling his other hand on the curve of Kyle's ass. He dug his fingers in the flesh, pressing Kyle harder against him as he ground his hips upwards. Between them, Kyle slipped his hands downwards to fiddle with the worn leather belt that held Eric's pants up. He fumbled for several minutes, Eric distracting him by kissing down his throat. The sounds he made were delicious.

When Kyle managed to finally pull the belt loose and pop the buttons open, he pulled away and hooked his fingers in the waistband. "I can suck something else," he suggested, voice a wonderful mixture of feigned innocence and suggestion. He didn't wait for Eric to answer, either, as he moved from Eric's lap to kneel between his legs. Kyle laughed as Eric tilted his head against the tree and thanked God.

The others had retreated to bed, some off in their own hut, others in the raft. Craig and Stan were the only ones awake, waiting by the fire, sipping at coconut water and making light small talk. Earlier, Stan had asked Craig if he'd seen where Kyle went. Craig gestured to the island's interior, letting him know they'd snuck off together. Since then, Stan had insisted on staying awake to wait for them to come home. He reminded Craig of a parent, waiting up for their kid coming home from a date or something. Not that Craig really knew what that was like, but he imagined it was something like this. Someone sitting, staring, waiting. Occasionally they made small talk, but Craig wasn't here to talk. He was here to watch. Wait for Kyle to come back with the racist twatwaffle so Craig could point at him and call him out on being a filthy slut.

"Man, it's been a while. What if one of them killed the other. Kyle's an angry little fucker. But Eric's killed before, sort of..." Stan said, and Craig looked at him. What? Craig debated asking. But for some reason, he knew Stan was going to explain anyway. "Once, when I first started working with him, we flew this little brat home from private school in the UK for the Christmas holiday's. He tried to pull one over on Cartman. When we flew back, he had Kenny put on Silence of the fucking Lambs for the inflight entertainment. Fed the kid chili. Normal shit, right? Until Eric told him it was made from his fucking parents."

If Craig hadn't seen Kenny die and resurrect three times now, he'd call bullshit. But the horrified look on Stan's face, amplified by the glow of the fire, made Craig a believer of that story. "Yeah... I don't think they've killed each other. I think they just snuck away for a quickie..." Craig spoke slowly, and Stan relaxed slightly. After a few minutes of silence, they heard something rustle in the trees. Stan stood up, alert in an instant. Craig watched as his chest puffed out, standing large as if he was ready to fight or assert himself as the dominant male or something. Craig couldn't care less. He figured it was Kyle and Cartman, and if it was some beast or whatever, Craig welcomed his demise with open arms. This place was getting real boring.

"Where have you two been?" Stan asked the second Kyle and Cartman stumbled into the light. What a stupid fucking question. Cartman looked smug, Kyle was flushed in the face and looked like he'd been drinking. The fact they were holding hands was a dead giveaway. But they dropped them the instant they saw Stan and Craig looking at their hands. "Nowhere," Kyle said the same time Cartman grunted, "none of your business, hippy." Behind Stan, Craig lifted his hand up and made a loose fist, moving it back and forth beside his cheek as his tongue poked the inside of his other one. Kyle gave him a nasty look, and Stan whipped around and Craig dropped his hand and looked as innocent as possible. The captain totally saw, though. Not that Craig made all that much of an effort to hide it. Stan looked like he was going through about a million emotions.

"We're going to bed, if you'd excuse us," Eric said, motioning for Kyle to go first with a smack on the ass before brushing past Stan. Stan looked proud, shocked, scandalized, all sorts of things at once. When they were gone, he sat back down, shoulders slumping. "You...alright?" He asked, and instantly he regretted it. He prayed that Stan wasn't going to give him some sob story. "Yeah, I mean, I knew they were into each other. But they're both my friends so I don't want them to fuck each other over." Craig sucked back the last bit of coconut water in his shell, tossing it into the pile that needed to be gutted in the morning. "They're adults," Craig said, tone flat. "It's not your concern. Stay out of it, the more people get involved in shit like that, the more problems there are." If they wanted to fuck around, it was their own problem. Craig didn't give a shit, really. He didn't like Cartman, but that didn't mean he was going to start telling Kyle to not fuck with him. Wasn't his place. All Craig was gonna do was call him a hoe, and give him a slap on the shoulder for getting laid. Like a good friend should.

Stan nodded in agreement, though. He scooted on the log, sitting beside him and resting his head against Craig's arm. Craig stared down at him, confused as all hell. His body tensed, wondering what possessed Stan to get all close. "Do you think it'll be like, a thing? Or just a one time thing?" Stan asked, sounding kind of sulky. "I hope it's a thing and not just a one time thing. Cartman could use a bit of grounding..." Craig was not meant for this kind of shit. Why was Stan still talking like he cared about it? So long as Kyle was fine, he couldn't give a shit where his dick went. Craig felt Stan's face move against his bicep, tilting up to look at him. He looked like a blue eyed, bearded puppy. Soft and full of emotions. He didn't know how to react. "I find you attractive and that's making me uncomfortable." Craig blurted, before feeling horrified. He thanked the heavens that his voice sounded just as monotonous as it always did. He could pass it off as being sarcastic, maybe? But Stan was grinning, like it was a compliment or some shit. Craig stood up quickly, knocking Stan out of place a little and he tipped off the log. "I'm going to bed." He tried to keep his voice as straight as possible, before climbing into the raft. He stepped on someone in the process, grumbling a sorry as he made his way to his and Tweek's usual spot.

He didn't sleep, simply stared up at the weaved palms in horror as he replayed his slip up over and over. God damn it.


	11. Drag

Kyle and Cartman were disgusting. Ever since Stan and Craig had caught them returning from their little escapade, they'd been attached at the hip. And not in the sense one would think. They were far from being love sick puppies. Perhaps the hip wasn't the right body part for the analogy. No. They were at each other's throats. Even more so now than they had been when they first met. Stan wondered if fooling around had broken any barriers between the two of them that had been put up because they were strangers. The disgusting part of it was that it was clearly some weird foreplay that everyone had to fucking listen to now.

It started the same way every time.

Cartman would say some sort of slur, call Kyle a Jew, or a Kike depending on how mad he wanted to make him. Or he'd go into some extreme, holding a finger to his upper lip and holding his arm out in a salute before saying some bullshit in German. No one knew what the hell he was saying, since he was the only one who spoke it. But Kyle sure as fuck knew what 'tod für die Juden ' meant, judging by the screaming and subsequent incandescent rage it sent him to. Kyle would kick Cartman's ass, tackling him to the ground and throwing punches and kicks wherever he could while Eric laughed and just wrapped his whole body around the redhead. Kyle would scream he was a racist fat fuck, he was going to kill him, rip his throat out with his teeth. Whatever horrible threat popped into his head.

Then they'd disappear for several hours and return holding hands. It was gross. Then they'd be fine for the rest of the day, not leaving each other's side and looking at their counterpart with so much love in their eyes that Stan wanted to puke.

Stan figured it was good, though. Cartman never kept a partner because no one would put up with the bullshit he spewed from his mouth-hole. When he'd been with Kyle himself, years ago, Stan couldn't keep up with the fighting. He should have known better, that it was just Kyle. Cartman could take his wrath and Kyle wasn't going to leave because fat boy couldn't keep his mouth shut. Stan was happy for them.

But it didn't negate the most disgusting thing Stan had seen or heard them do in the week they'd been whatever they were. Which they were doing now, much to Stan's horror.

Cartman was staring at Kyle like he was the most delicious thing he'd ever seen. And Kyle was no better. Stan could feel the lust roll off the two of them in waves. It wasn't like they were talking about anything nasty in particular. The two of them had the sense not to subject everyone to their sex life. They were sitting there, and it had been a while since he'd heard it, but Stan knew Kyle's sex voice like he'd heard it only yesterday. If they were talking about fucking each other or the stuff they were going to do to each other, Stan could live with it.

But they weren't. They were talking about food! They were talking about food in the same tone someone had phone sex in and Stan wanted to scream in horror.

"...hot chocolate chip cookies smothered in ice cream and caramel sauce, a Spanish coffee with mountains of whipped cream," he heard Kyle say, eyes on Eric as he brought his hand up to his mouth to slowly suck a piece of juicy fruit between his lips. Kyle's voice was low and seductive, Eric's eyes were dilated, and Stan watched him lick his lips.

"Fuck, babe, I love when you talk desserty to me."

Stan got up and left.

It had been three weeks, and by now everyone had become well acquainted with their island home. There wasn't much left to explore, but it was large enough for people to get away from the group should they need it. Stan needed it. They all needed it, really. If he was going by his own irritability as reference, Stan could understand why most people had begun to separate. Either alone, such as in Stan's cause, or together like Bebe and Wendy. They were going stir crazy.

Or, Stan thought, just crazy. At least in Craig's case.

He couldn't help but feel mostly responsible for that. They'd all figured out Craig's weird day time nap schedule a few weeks ago, once he started getting crotchety and Tweek finally made him properly sleep eight hours in the middle of the day. He'd done fine up until the night Stan got a little affectionate with him, happy to take the night watch and sleep through the day. But now, Stan hasn't seen him sleep maybe more than twenty minutes since his little admission of attraction. He couldn't say he understood, or knew what it was like. Stan always got a solid six to eight hours a night, having learned to sleep when he could due to legally needing the rest before operating an aircraft. But he was concerned.

Especially now.

Stan had needed to get away from the Kyle and Eric show for a bit, and had decided to go talk a walk. Find something to eat. Maybe steal some eggs, despite the pang in his heart about killing some animals unborn child. But Kyle and Kenny had convinced him to start eating some sea food, simply so he would get some form of fat into him. Plus, Bebe had talked about making coconut oil and Stan figured it would be a good excuse to go gather some. He knew he'd probably come across at least one person on his adventure, but for some reason Stan did not expect Craig. At least, he didn't expect Craig like this.

Craig stood tall, of course he did. But his wasn't solid in his stance, swaying around and jumpy. At every sound in the island jungle, he jumped, staring at where it could possibly have come from. He had his tee shirt wrapped around his head, tied in the back like some sort of du-rag. In his hand was his blue hoodie, faded by ocean water and sun at this point. And he was using it as some form of weapon, whipping it in the air. In the beginning, Stan thought Craig had been rather cool. Stoic and unfeeling. Of course it was a ruse, everyone had emotions and Craig was just keeping his to himself.

But watching from several feet away, concealed by bushes, Stan wondered just exactly what kind of crazies Craig was hiding from everyone else. He was half tempted to laugh, but he kind of felt sorry for the guy. Craig was tired, and refused to sleep. Somehow, in his head, there was something preventing him from doing so. There was no way Craig wasn't forcing himself awake at this point. Whatever he saw while he was sleeping was somehow worse than whatever he was seeing now.

Stan had to help him.

He moved, foot cracking some fallen branches. Craig heard, whipped around wildly. Stan could see his pupils, blown so wide that he couldn't even see the dark blue of Craig's irises. Like this, Stan couldn't believe how much darker Craig had gotten. He was shirtless, of course, since it was wrapped around his head. But the tan lines showed the great contrast of before and now.

Slowly, Stan stepped closer, holding his arms up to show he wasn't some sort of threat. But Craig stepped back, long legs wobbling like those of a newborn foal. "Hey, buddy," Stan spoke slowly. "You okay?" Craig nodded quickly, eyes flitting about their surroundings. "Yeah, yeah," he said, nearly jumping out of his skin when his back his the tree. He brandished the blue hoodie like a sword, albeit a limp and lifeless one. Ready to snap it at Stan should need be.

"Stay back," Craig said, his voice breaking between syllables. "Prove it."

"Prove what..?" Stan asked, hands still raised in front of him.

"That you're not one of the shadow people!" Craig was panicking, and Stan took a few steps backwards to give him more space. He doubted Craig could hurt a fly, let alone him, like this. He'd lost weight, and was a bit on the malnourished side but there was little else to do on the island so he and Bebe had taken to becoming work out buddies in the morning to keep themselves fit once Stan's chest had healed up. Craig was thin, and Stan doubted he had much strength in him. But he was crazed, and Stan had learned long ago not to underestimate someone in a panicked state of mind.

"I'm not, dude. I promise. See," Stan smacked his chest, trying to prove he was solid and not made from the absence of light. How else was he gonna do it? It seemed to appease Craig a little, though. Stan took a few slow steps forward, watching as Craig gripped his sweater tighter in his hands. "Come on, man." Stan remains as soft spoken as possible, extending his hand to Craig. "Let's go back to camp. When was the last time you had a nap, huh?"

It must have been the wrong thing to say, because Craig started swinging the fabric at Stan, sliding around the trunk of the tree to get further away.

"No! You're one of them!" Craig screeched, and Stan wanted to just go and grab him and drag him out of the fucking forest.

Fucks sake.

"I'm not a shadow person!" Stan snapped, and Craig growled at him. Actually growled. Fuck if that didn't remind him of Kyle when they were kids. "Yes you are! They want me to sleep!" Craig dropped the hoodie, bringing his hands to his face and scraping his chewed nails down the skin and leaving red marks down his cheeks. "Drag me down there! They're gonna drown me!" Craig's voice was hoarse, like he was dehydrated. Stan wouldn't doubt he was, if he was fucking hallucinating about the shadow people he doubted he'd distracted himself with eating or drinking anything recently.

"No one's gonna drown you, man, I promise." With his hands empty, Stan took a few steps forward quickly, too fast for Craig to really do anything about it. He grabbed the taller man by the shoulders, trying to ground him. "You're like, tweaking out man, fuck. Focus on me for a second!" Instantly, Stan regretted his choice of words when Craig shoved him backwards, screaming.

"What'd you do with him?! Where is he?! Tweet!" And Craig was off running, stumbling over the debris on the island ground. Fuck that, Stan wasn't going to let Craig go running into anyone else in this state. Stan took off after him, easily catching up and jumping on his back to tackle Craig to the ground. He hadn't play football in ages, but damned if he didn't still have a trick or two up his sleeve. He sat upon Craig, who was screaming bloody murder, thrashing wildly and smacking his hand on the ground whilst trying to beat Stan off of him. It took several moments, but Stan managed to grab hold of his wrists and pin them above Craig's head. "Calm the fuck down! Tweek is fucking fine!" Craig lunged his chest forward. How general length of body and limbs allowed him to smash his forehead square into Stan's nose.

Stan wanted to punch him in the head for it. He could feel it break, and instinct had him wanting to just straight up knock Craig into unconsciousness. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and pressed down harder on Craig's torso. "Stop!" Stan commanded, desperate to take control of the situation.

"Let me go!" The tears were starting to stream down Craig's face, and Stan felt his heart fall. "Please... just let me go! Please, let me go," Craig begged. Stan had half a mind to, but he felt Craig's heart pound violently in his chest. So hard Stan could feel it through his legs. Stan was no doctor, that was Kyle's job, but the last thing he wanted was for Craig to run off and give himself some sort of heart attack. He held Craig's wrists together in one hand, using the other to pull the shirt off his head and stuff it under to make some sort of cushion so Craig wouldn't knock himself out. He left his hand in Craig's shaggy black hair, trying somehow to soothe him. Stan always enjoyed someone playing with his hair, it was worth a shot to try.

"Listen," Stan said, voice calmer but no less authoritative. "I won't hurt you. I promise. Please believe me. You need to sleep." At the mention of sleep, Craig's light crying and heavy breathing turned into sobs. "Please... please don't. Don't make me go to sleep," he begged, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to worm away. "I don't want to! Please, Stan, please don't."

"Why?" Stan asked. "Why is it so bad?"

Craig continued to cry for a few moments, before eventually tiring himself out or something since they died down to panting. "I don't wanna see dad," he whispered, opening his eyes to stare up at Stan. "I don't wanna see him." Stan didn't know what to say. Not sure of what Craig saw in his sleep. Not sure if he wanted to know. "It's real," Craig said. "It's real!"

Craig looked so young, so scared and Stan didn't know what went on in Craig's life but he hated this suffering he was going through. Stan felt his throat close up, worrying he would start crying himself. He was always empathetic, and now wasn't the time to feel someone else's pain. "I'll help," Stan said, bringing his voice down to a whisper. "I'll help keep him away, okay? I promise. I'll make sure you won't see your dad." Craig's lower lip wibbled, and Stan eased some of the pressure on his chest and sat back a little.

"He hates me," Craig whispered, eyes looking a thousand years older. "He hates I like boys. He says I'm not his son. He says mom is a whore." Stan wondered for a second if Craig was even speaking to him, because he looked as if he was seeing straight through Stan. He wasn't crying anymore, either. Speaking calmly as if it was fact. Stan figured it was. Craig was burning through moods at a rapid pace, his eyes and expressions changing quickly. It flashed through acceptance, then anger, fear and sadness in a matter of seconds, and Stan wondered what was going on in that exhausted little head of his.

"Craig?" Stan whispered, fingers massaging at his scalp. "I'm gonna get off you, okay? Promise you won't run?" Craig nodded, eyes dropping as if he was finally accepting the fact he needed to sleep. Stan could only imagine how he felt, because he was exhausted just dealing with him. Rolling off of him, Stan sat on the round beside Craig. Ready to pounce should Craig make another run for it. He didn't move, just laid limp as he stared up at the leaves and sky. Stan wiped the blood from his nose that dribbled down his face and neck. Fuck, Craig had a solid head to him.

"I'm sorry," he said after several long moments. He sounded almost normal, voice deep and rough from his earlier screaming and carrying on. "I'm tired."

Stan couldn't help but laugh, the tone of it dark. "No shit, dude. Why the fuck aren't you sleeping right?" Craig rolled over on to his side, looking at Stan as he curled up as small as a guy his height could. He pressed his palms into his eyes before smacking at his face, the desperation to stay awake still there even if his shadow people hallucinations were gone. For now anyway. If he didn't sleep they'd return, and if he didn't sleep he'd probably die. And Stan doubted that he had Kenny's special gift of resurrection.

"Nightmares," he said after a while, and Stan watched the tears well up in his eyes again. Fuck. He couldn't stand to see a grown man cry anymore. Least of all someone he'd only thought capable of making one face, the real life version of the colon and back slash emoji. To watch him scrunch it up in terror or anguish was heartbreaking. "They keep me up anyway!" He cried out, jagged nails digging just above his brows. "Easier to stay awake. I can't even be on this fucking island to escape him!" Craig's voice dropped low, pulled his hands away from his face and forced it into a stern, nasty look. "'I'm gonna fix you, Craig!'" His tone indicated mocking, before he started laughing. "What a great fucking job he did! Still like boys, dad!" Once again Craig spoke like he wasn't talking to anyone and that Stan wasn't even present. It was uncomfortable. Both to be basically ignored, but also the implications. Stan's mind kept jumping to the worst, hoping for least abusive one possible. Stan felt disgusted with himself for hoping that Craig's dad just beat him or something, maybe send him off to some Christian fix-it camp. Craig spoke quietly, and if it wasn't for the fact there were next to no sounds in the trees, Stan wouldn't have heard him. "Too drunk to fucking remember..."

Stan leaned forward, over Craig's body and watched as he tensed up. All Stan wanted was Craig's shirt, using it to wipe up the drying blood from his broken nose. "Please don't tell Tweek," Craig mumbled, sounding just as pathetic as he was looking.

"I won't," Stan promised. It wasn't his place to do so. He had the feeling that he already knew more than Craig would have liked to admit already. Part of Stan hoped he'd fall asleep and would wake up unknowing of his weird little crazy fit. "Anything I can do to help you sleep?" Stan asked, and Craig reached out to wrap his fingers into the thinning fabric of Stan's uniform pants. "Stay with me?" Craig asked, soft and sleepy. Stan just nodded, watching as Craig's eyes fell closed. Stan wondered just how quickly he actually fell asleep. To be safe, Stan sat there with him for what felt like half an hour or so, figuring he was completely out of it when Craig began to snore. It didn't take much effort to pry Craig's weak fingers from his pants, nor did it take much to scoop Craig up into his arms. For his height, he was far to light. He didn't wake, which was a plus. Stan even gave him a hard pinch on the back of his bicep for good measure, and maybe partially to get revenge for the broken nose. He figured it would leave a bruise, but Craig didn't wake up.


	12. Dead Reckoning

Craig slept for twenty hours. Just... out of it. At first it was fine, they all left him to it in the raft. But as the hours passed, everyone was growing mildly concerned. With the exception of Tweek, who insisted this happened before. They'd all taken turns poking and prodding at him, Eric even going so far as to continuously stab him with a sharp stick. Kyle had given him shit, breaking out into a fight over trying to skewer him with a fucking branch.

"If he's dead, we could eat him!" Cartman argued, poking Craig in the thigh again with the stick. Kyle reached out, trying to smack it from his hands. Eric just yanked it out of his reach. "We're not eating my friend, you fat fuck! He's not dead!" Just because Cartman was pissy they were stuck on Craig Duty didn't mean he was allowed to try to turn him into Swiss cheese. Cartman tossed the stick down into the sand, peering in to the raft to stare Craig down. "What if he's just faking," he said, and turned to look at rolled his eyes. "He's not faking it, you moron. Why would he be faking it?"

"He's an attention whore," Cartman said simply, leaning in and yanking on the sleeping man's pants. "Wake up, Craig, we know you're full of shit!"

Kyle groaned, going to grab Eric's arm to get him to stop. "He's the furthest thing from an attention whore. Leave him alone, or I'll poke you with a stick and see how you like it." Cartman pulled out of the raft, turning to lean on the inflated yellow wall of it. He reached out, snaking an arm around Kyle's bony hips and yanked him forward between his legs. Kyle made a small noise of surprise before settling against his chest, pressing his cheek against it. Kyle could feel his ribs beneath the skin, hard and uncomfortable. "I could poke you with my stick," Cartman chuckled, and Kyle scoffed. "You're disgusting." Eric laughed, burying his face into Kyle's knotted curls. "Not what you said last time I poked you with it."

"Actually, technically it was this morning when you were rubbing up against my ass and I told you to stop or I would bite it off," Kyle countered.

Eric hummed in agreement, rocking them from side to side as he spoke. "Right, right, I always forget how much of a cow you are in the morning." Kyle would have protested if it wasn't true. He wasn't a morning person, especially when at sunrise some asshat was dry humping him. Kyle liked his sleep, a lot more than he liked morning sex. If anything, morning sex was gross. He liked to shower, brush his teeth. Put on some deodorant. Small luxuries they didn't have anymore. Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a proper shower and a tooth brush. Not that it made much of a difference now anyway. If they smelled, no one could really tell anymore...

They were silent for a long while, Eric swaying them in time with the sound of the waves breaking on the sand. When he started humming, Kyle could feel it through his chest. " _Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. If you can use some exotic booze, there's a bar in far Bombay."_ Cartman sang, voice low.

" _Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru. In Llama Land there's a one man band and he'll toot his flute for you."_

Every now and then Kyle caught him singing, and he had a lovely voice. But the song caused him to chuckle. It had been one of Stan's favourites, of course. Probably still was. Eric seemed to take his amusement as encouragement, and moved a hand from Kyle's waist to grab his left hand before pushing off the wall of the raft. They danced in a small four step that was easy enough for Kyle to follow. He was the worst dancer, and easily gave the lead to Eric. He was clearly a natural, eyes closed and getting incredibly into it. Most of Kyle's enjoyment was coming from watching.

" _Once I get you up there, where the air is rarefied, we'll just glide, starry eyed. Once I get you up there, I'll be holding you so near. You may hear all the angels cheer because we're together. Weather wise it's such a lovely day... Just say the words and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay."_

The pace of their little dance was picking up, and Kyle had to tear his eyes away from Eric's face to look down at his feet. He'd trip otherwise, far from used to such trivial things. His dancing experience was limited to bouncing around in his college dorm room or private shower performances. But Eric was clearly well versed in it. Kyle wanted to ask where he'd learned, since this was obviously a simple dance for the brunet, given his ease of doing it barefoot in uneven sand with his eyes closed. But he didn't want to interrupt the performance.

 _"It is perfect for a flying honeymoon, they say. Come fly with me, let's fly, lets fly away!"_ Eric began humming the instrumental, opening his eyes to make sure Kyle was present, judging by the quick turn in the sand. Kyle stumbled, only to be fully supported by Eric's arm wrapping around his back to support his weight and hold him closer.

 _"Once I get you up there where the air is rarefied, we'll just glide, starry eyed. Once I get you up there, I'll be holding you so very near, you might even hear a whole gang of cheers just because we're together."_ Eric sang, letting go of Kyle to spin him into the arms of Stan, so easily rehearsed that Kyle hadn't doubted they'd done this routine before. Stan had taken the lead so smoothly, whereas Kyle's legs just fumbled about stupidly in the sand. It didn't cause Eric to break the pace of his song, either. Kyle couldn't help but wonder just what in hell went on with the pilots, and he made the mental note to ask.

Stan had joined in alongside Eric in the song, and in a turn he spotted Kenny's familiar blonde head just before he chimed in alongside them. Neither of them were nearly as talented, vocal wise, as the first officer was but they weren't half bad. Just how often was this performance done? And Stan wasn't half a bad dancer himself, thought Kyle only had the brief experience with Cartman.

He passed Kyle off like a rag doll back to Eric's arms, the other pulling him closer in an instant, his voice being the main one Kyle heard. He heard the final verse of the song directly by his ear.

 _"_ _Weather wise it's suck a cucoo day. You just say those words and we'll take our birds down to Acapulco Bay. It's so perfect for a flying honeymoon, oh babe, come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. Pack up lets fly away."_

Kyle was out of breath by the time Eric brought them to a stop, grin on his face. "You're a shit dancer," he told Kyle, and in response Kyle smacked him in the chest and looked over to Stan for some sort of support. Stan shook his head, laughing. "Sorry, man."

Assholes.

Kyle pulled out of Eric's arms, feeling too hot now to want to be embraced. He sunk down into the sand, pushing hair back from his face. "That was way to rehearsed. Do they pay you to be a barbershop trio up there?" He asked, looking at the three of them. All of them shared the same look.

"We get bored on standby," Stan explained. "Walked in on Kenny and Eric dancing once, and they still wont tell me why it started but I got roped into it anyway. Kenny's a great dancer. You should see him in heels." Kenny grinned proudly, standing on his tip toes and taking Eric's hands, dipping himself low and kicked a leg into the air.

"I'm pretty impressive, if I do say so myself," Kenny laughed, before getting winded when Eric just let him go to fall backwards in the sand. "Didn't your mother teach you not to brag, McCormick. Especially when you're wrong," he said, jumping aside when Kenny tried to kick at him from his spot in the sand.

Kenny laughed. "She taught me how to play the system and deal drugs, fat ass, what do you think?" he said, before rolling on to his front and pushed himself up on to his knees, only to have Eric use his foot to kick one leg out from under him. He fell back to the sand, getting a mouthful of it. Kenny rolled to his back and spat it up at Cartman. "Fight me, fat ass," he said, making a 'come at me' gesture with his hands. Kyle and Stan watched them for a few minutes, interested only in seeing if Cartman would actually fight him. The two stared at each other for a few moments before Stan and Kyle grew bored of it, and Kyle focused his attention on his ex-boyfriend.

"You three are fucking weird, you know that?" Kyle had said it several times over the last three weeks, when he watched them all interact with each other. Stan shrugged, grinning as he saw Cartman dive down into the sand to sit on top of Kenny. His signature move usually was just that, sitting on them like a cat suffocating their prey. It didn't seem as effective now that Cartman looked like he was dying. "We're together all the time. When we're not flying, we're usually all in the same hotel because our boss is a cheap bastard. The only times we don't see each other is when we've not got any bookings," Stan said. "We're a weird family I guess."

Kyle felt a little envious. He had his friends, of course. Most of them were here with him, but they didn't see each other day in or day out. They had lives outside of each other. None of them worked together, and Kyle wasn't friends with his coworkers in residency. Kyle's friends weren't his family, hadn't been since Kyle left his best friend for university. Stan had grown and filled that void, and Kyle was suddenly hit with the words from ten years prior. That Stan would be well settled before Kyle even started his own life. This here was proof that Stan was right. And even though he had consistently expressed worry that he'd never get another job flying again, he had Kenny and Eric in the exact same situation with him.

Although, who knew if they'd even get off this island, let alone get another job. They'd probably filled Kyle's place in residency and he doubted he'd be able to get it back after being gone this long. And that was assuming they'd be home soon... It had been three weeks. "Do you think they think we're all dead," Kyle asked, looking over at Stan's sunken and furry face. He shrugged, shaking his head. "I dunno, dude. Probably. We haven't even seen a plane fly over... Maybe it's time we start forming a different plan."

"Like what, getting home ourselves?" Kyle was skeptical. Navigating the ocean on their own was dangerous. Especially when all they had was a raft that wasn't nearly as plump as it originally had been. He could see Stan thinking about it, the gears behind his eyes working wildly. "No, man. It's not worth the risk. Who knows where we'd end up?" Stan didn't answer, his eyes on Cartman pinning Kenny down with one arm while he tickled him mercilessly with the other, causing Kenny to scream and try and kick him off with his legs.

"I will piss on you, fat ass, don't think I won't!" Kenny yelled, flailing his legs and managing to get Cartman off him in the process.

Kyle rolled his eyes, before looking back to Stan. "See, these are the people we're with. How the hell are we gonna navigate the high seas with a bunch of morons and a dinghy?" Stan started to laugh, before speaking. "A Bunch of Morons and a Dinghy. Dibs on that being the title of my memoir. When they make it into a Lifetime Movie, you can be played by Carrot Top."

Face going sour, the redhead punched Stan in the shoulder. "Don't be a fucking tool," Kyle huffed. "Cartman can be played by Amy Schumer, though." The two others stopped roughhousing when Cartman turned to stare Kyle down, a look of loathing on his face. He had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at him.

"Fuck you, Jew," he said and tossed a fistful of sand in their direction. Stan and Kyle tried blocking it with their hands, not succeeding all to well. In retaliation, they both threw their own handfuls, Stan's flying over Cartman's head and straight into the face of a very, very angry looking Craig.

Craig was not happy. Not happy in the slightest. His head was pounding, his stomach felt like it had consumed itself and then started to form a black hole inside of him. And to wake up with loud noise and a face full of sand...? If Craig had the strength, he'd kick their asses.

Craig stared at the Four Idiots of his personal apocalypse, and they stared back stupidly. How long had he been asleep for, because they looked like they were seeing him wake from the dead. Who knew, maybe he did die and his personal hell was walking around with these tools for the rest of eternity.

"Morning..?" Kyle said, looking cautiously at him and Craig tried to glare back, but his eyes struggled to adjust to the sun. So he flipped the four of them off, not even finding the strength to make his middle finger stand tall and proud.

Placing most of his weight on the raft, Craig hung over it as he tried to climb out only to give up halfway through and lay flopped over it, feeling like soggy toast. Maybe he could just give up and die right here. But he was thirsty. So fucking thirsty... "Water..." Craig cracked out, dry throat burning with lack of use and dehydration. He grabbed weakly at the air, until someone had enough sense to bring over a coconut half full of water for him.

Of course it was Stan. Craig managed to roll his eyes, drinking the liquid in one drink before he held it out for a refill. Kyle passed the jug over water over, and what a better idea that was. He tossed the coconut to the sand, reaching to take the jug. He dropped it once before Stan held it, tilting it so Craig could drink until he felt like he was going to throw up. Already he could feel the headache start to subside, brain no longer feeling like it was going to burst from his skull. He grumbled out a thanks, and slid forward. His stomach rubbed against the yellow vinyl, hot from the sun, until he landed in a tangle of his own body in the sand. Craig would gladly lay there and die, so long as it ended soon.

"You alright, man?" Stan asked, crouching down beside him. He could feel his hands go under his armpits, and Craig let out a childish whine. "Kill me," he mumbled, turning his head and resting his cheek on the warm sand. He heard Cartman say something about eating him, and heard the sound of a hand on skin and wondered if Kyle had smacked him. Good. He was too bony to eat. They'd be better off eating Butters or something. Butters still had his baby fat, plump and round in the cheeks, both facial wise and ass wise.

Fuck, he was messed up. The idea of eating Butters' ass- that was the wrong fucking choice of words, Christ- really made him want to drive that whole 'kill me' thing home. Poor Butters, but mostly, poor Craig. He was hungry, so hungry. The dehydration and hunger caused such a horrible headache, worse than any hangover Craig had ever experienced. The he chugged back helped, but it'd be a bit for his body to rehydrate itself. He could feel Stan hoist him off the ground, and Craig made such a pitiful noise. "I'm hungry..."

Stan laughed, sitting Craig up and against the raft. "I'd bet. You tripped out and then fell asleep for like, twenty hours." Craig snorted, remembering it all quite visibly. "I know, thanks for the reminder." Craig remembered it all so well, as he remembered every other time his insomnia crossed the line from somewhat easy to deal with to full blown hallucinations and delusions. Rubbing at his temples, Craig closed his eyes and tried to will the humiliation away. At least it was just Stan, nose still bruised and swollen from Craig's assault. "Sorry 'bout your face, man," he grumbled as Stan handed him some coconut and fruit on a leaf.

"If anything, it's an improvement," Kenny laughed, appearing above Stan, hands on his shoulders. Craig couldn't help the pang of jealousy when Stan looked up at the blonde, face bright and smiling through his beard and bruises. Craig's stupid little crush was grating on his nerves, reminding him of the time he'd had that little thing for Clyde before he and Tweek started dating. Silly and pointless, based purely on physical attraction and not much else. It usually stemmed from attractive guys giving Craig any sort of affection whatsoever.

Sulking, Craig occupied himself by shoveling the coconut and fruit into his mouth, stomach grateful for finally giving it something, anything to digest. Thinking of Clyde made him uneasy, missing his best friend more than he'd thought he could ever miss the idiot. He hoped to all hell he wasn't pissing everyone off around them crying all the time. And that his guinea pig Guinea Pig was fine. Craig knew he should have left him with Token. Tweek's plants were probably long dead now, too. The sad little lemon tree he'd spent ages trying to coax into bearing fruit only to finally start seeing the beginnings of one form. Tweek had been pollinating the blossoms so meticulously with Q-Tips for years in hopes of getting a lemon, all for not because his idiot friend Clyde probably killed it.

"I wanna go home," he mumbled, looking up through his dark lashes at Stan and Kenny. "I wanna see my guinea pig." Both of them blinked down at him, and Craig could see Kenny biting back a smile under his own dirty blonde beard. Not nearly as impressive as Stan's, whose had grown incredibly quickly. Craig instinctively brought a hand to his own jaw, scratching at the stubble. "You have a guinea pig?" Kenny asked, and Craig nodded. "I like them, I've had a few over the years." Okay, he had like... six since he was a kid. Stan and Kenny were looking at him like they were shocked that Craig had a heart for something like a rodent. He felt his defenses rise, narrowing his eyes. "They're cute, okay? What's so weird about a grown ass man having a pet Guinea pig?"

Stan chuckled, and Kenny shrugged before speaking. "Nothing, man, you just don't seem like an animal guy." Craig took offense to that, never liking anyone assuming anything about him. Especially people who didn't know him. "Kyle's little brother doesn't seem like a stoner, but he's the biggest pothead I've ever seen." Kyle's red head perked up, his bickering with Cartman stopping in an instant. "What?"

Craig gave a fake look of 'oops'. "You didn't know that? Whoops. What did you think him and his buddies were doing the first week here in the woods?" Mind, Kyle always had a knack on focusing on himself first and foremost, as far as Craig knew him. They weren't that close, only friends by association. Kyle hung out with Wendy and Bebe, and their girl friends, and Bebe hung out with Clyde and Token, and Clyde and Token hung out with Craig and Tweek. In turn, Tweek hung with Jimmy and Timmy. "How do you know that?" Kyle asked him, curious look on his face. Craig wondered how long until he gave Ike a lecture about the dangers of smoking. Craig had heard that countless times from him.

"I went through their shit while they still had smokes," Craig said. "They had a bag of weed. Was gonna take it, but THC isn't really my thing." He had debated using it to chill Tweek out a bit, but he'd stolen at least half of Firkle's smokes. It was cruel to take their other drugs. He did pocket the airplane minis though, stored them away under the raft for future use. For what, Craig didn't know. Maybe he wanted to dump them on his head and set fire to himself as a way to end the suffering of this shitty island. Or he could drown himself, or hang himself... Fuck, he wanted to go home.

"We're making a plan to leave," Stan had told them when Wendy and Bebe came back from their little adventure with a shirt full of coconuts and a handful of eggs Bebe had scooped from an unattended nest. Wendy looked over at her girlfriend, trying to gauge her reaction on the subject. She seemed to think it was a good idea, but Wendy was skeptical. By now, everyone else had returned to camp as evening began to fall. She was pleased to see Craig was awake, albeit a little miserable looking. That was nothing new for Craig, though.

Sitting down on one of the rocks they'd brought from the shore to use as a chair, Wendy began to dump the contents of the shirt bag onto the sandy ground. "You sure that's a good idea, Stan? None of us have any knowledge of navigating the ocean..." She assumed the same about Stan and his crew. They flew, they didn't sail. But as far as navigation went, Stan was likely the best bet they had anyway. Stan sighed, still mulling this over in his head. They were all desperate. They all wanted to leave. Wendy missed her home, their cat, their bed. Clean clothes, a tooth brush and a warm shower... But you ran the risk of dying on the seas.

"Well," Stan said, speaking to the group. "Our last known location we we're off the coast of Cuba. We're somewhere between Cuba, the Bahamas and Turks and Caicos. With any luck, we're somewhere between the Cuba and the islands. If that's the case, we're no more than a hundred miles from somewhere with civilization. If we're on the other side of the Islands, we can't be more than fifty miles East. That means our best bet is to get on the raft and just go West. We'll either hit Turks and Caicos or Cuba..."

"Stan," Kyle said, and Wendy directed her attention to him. "We haven't seen traces of boats or planes. I think it's safe to say we're not between Cuba and Turks. Surely we'd have heard a plane going by by now if that was the case." Wendy couldn't help but agree. Perhaps she was playing skeptic or devils advocate, but they needed to analyze all risks before hopping in a raft and floating away in hopes of making it. "Kyle's right, Stan. And we can't travel fast enough in the raft. Even if we make a sail, we probably wont hit more than a couple miles an hour. It'll take us several days. We'd need food, water... We don't have anything to store enough water for all of us in the raft, and there's no guarantee that we'd even hit an island. And what happens if we blow off course or a storm rolls in?" The waves would capsize them easily, and there was no feasible way of swimming the rest of the way. It wasn't as if they'd gotten life jackets from the plane in their panic. The one thing the damn safety demonstration said. Even Kenny didn't put one on, more focused on getting them and his pilots out alive.

Stan stood taller, broad chest puffing up to show his authority, shaking his head. Wendy rolled her eyes at his so stereotypical male way of asserting command. "We've gotta do something, guys. We're dying here. We either die here, and hope our bodies are found. Or we can spend a few days doing what we can to build ourselves up for the trip. Take our chances. It's been weeks, they think we're dead. We know we'll die here. Aren't you sick of waiting for other people to decide your fate? There's at least the chance of living if we leave." Wendy bit into her lip, looking over at Bebe. The blonde took her hand, and gave it a shake.

"Stan's right, babe. We'll go crazy here. We already are. We'll kill each other, or ourselves, or we'll just waste away. That's no way to live. And I don't want to go home and say we did nothing. I also don't want them to find us as skeletons, decades from now when some rich son of a bitch buys this island to make it his vacation home. I want to go home." She looked at Wendy with those big brown eyes that had suckered her in from the day they met. Wendy'd do anything for her, and seeing her beg with her eyes made it impossible to say no.

"We don't all have to go," Butters pointed out, looking around as if he was waiting for someone to call him an idiot. "If some people aren't comfortable, we can split up. Some can go, and hopefully make it. Maybe they can get help. And... and if something does happen, we don't all die." It was... it was a suggestion. But Wendy couldn't imagine separating any of them at this point. They were a little family.

It was Tweek who shook his head in protest. "No," he mumbled, holding on to the pocket of Craig's hoodie. "We go together or not at all," he squeezed his eyes shut before looking at everyone in their circle. "No one gets left behind. Argh! We can't leave people behind! It'd be... It'd be way to stressful!" Wendy had to agree. There was no guarantee they'd make it, and Wendy wouldn't be able to live with herself if she never saw that everyone was okay. Or, at the very least, that they knew what happened to everyone. There was no promise that they'd all make it. But Wendy knew she'd be a lot better off if she could send off someone's soul with their body, as opposed to always thinking of the What If.

"Give us a week or so," Cartman said, standing up to join Stan. "We'll pack what we can. Even if we're two hundred miles off from somewhere, if we average a speed of three knots, it'll take maybe three days. Even if our dead reckoning is off, it shouldn't take much longer than that to come across land. Maybe six days to hit Cuba if we bypass an island. We continue West, and only West. Stan's watch has a compass, but the sun should be setting just due West an- what, Butters?" Wendy turned her attention from Eric to see Butters waving a hand wildly, like he was in grade school.

"What's Dead Reckoning?" he asked, and Eric scoffed, and looked at Stan. "Oh my god, Butters..." But it was Kenny who explained, smiling at Butters like he wasn't an idiot for not knowing their little piloting terms. It wasn't like Wendy knew exactly what it meant either, but she could figure out what Eric was saying just by the context of it.

"It means navigating via guesswork. It's what you do when you have no equipment, charts or landmarks to guess your position on," Kenny explained. "Fat ass is good at it, because he doesn't know how to read maps."

"Oy, fuck you, Kinny."


End file.
